


The Thought of Having You Around

by snark_sniper



Series: Love Is Strong Enough [formerly "unnamed soulmate AU collection"] [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Nobility, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, commoners, soulmate!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snark_sniper/pseuds/snark_sniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natalia, youngest heiress of the Braginski family, rejects the idea of soulmates. Toris, the kitchen boy, hides the words on his arm that mark him as hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Toris

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this isn't the HongIce I thought I would work on, but it's been a longer time coming. This story owes its existence to Maris (who reviewed on AO3), who asked for a LietBel extension of Not With Haste, and its resolution to andIJDC (who reviewed on FF.net), who wondered what happened to Natalia and Gilbert.
> 
> To those of you new to the party: I posted a Nordic-centered story called Not With Haste, but reading it is NOT obligatory to understand what's happening here. The two only intersect in one scene in the second part, and I hope to provide all the context necessary.
> 
> The title comes from the song "Never Let You Down" by The Verve Pipe, which was my go-to inspiration song for the past few months as I brainstormed this fic.
> 
> Heads up: Lars is the Netherlands, Marie is Belgium, and Lucien is Luxembourg.

“That’s a very pretty dress, miss.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Toris pauses as he rolls the dough. This girl looked so sweet when she first set foot into the kitchen, but apparently appearances can deceive. It’s odd because everybody else Toris has met today has been exactly as he first guessed they would be—Raivis in the gardens stuttered and wouldn’t meet his eye, Eduard kept a cool façade to keep up with his butler uniform, and Elizabeta, right here next to Toris in the kitchen, constantly has a smile and something interesting to talk about.

This girl, now that Toris gets a good look at her, still has a sweet face. He can’t exactly describe what strikes him as the sweet part, as she has a bit of a glare and a slight haughtiness in her step. All he knows is that his greeting to her was one of his first thoughts, and he’s never going to shy away from a compliment. Not on his first day at the job, and not any other day.

Toris and Elizabeta continue to work quietly in the kitchen, Toris kneading dough and Elizabeta washing dishes. The other girl—she looks around ten years old, four years Toris’s junior—pokes around methodically in the cabinets and pantry. She appears to be looking for something.

After a few minutes of this, Toris speaks again. “Is there something I can help you find, miss?”

“When will the cookies be finished?”

Toris doesn’t know anything about expected cookies. He’s preparing bread to accompany that day’s lunch, a special recipe that the Braginski family seems to prefer based on how Elizabeta specifically instructed to make it exactly to the recipe’s standard. The old cook, it seems, was fired for something along the lines of too many poor meals, making young Elizabeta the head chef and Toris her assistant until they can find someone new.

When Toris takes too much time in responding, the girl turns to face him and eyes him from the ground up. Toris stills again, watching her gaze. It really is quite piercing.

The girl reaches his eyes and raises her eyebrows. “You’ll be making them soon,” she says in a voice that leaves no room for protest.

Toris blinks. He then smiles lightly at her. “I suppose I will. Miss. What kind of cookies do you—”

“We’ll prepare them soon, Mistress Braginski,” butts in Elizabeta from the sink, turning and wiping her hands on her apron as she gives a little bow. “The minute we finish our preparations for lunch.”

“See that you do,” says the girl, and with a rustle of knee-length skirts, she’s off.

Toris swivels around to look at Elizabeta, who is examining him with an amused expression. “Mistress _Braginski?_ ”

“I thought you knew,” says Elizabeta. “She’s the youngest daughter. Who did you think she was?”

Toris flushes very slightly and doesn’t answer. He turns himself back to the dough, working a little faster so that he can get to whatever cookies Miss—Mistress Braginski wants. He’ll have to ask Elizabeta about it, since she seems to know.

When Toris first saw Mistress Braginski, all he thought about her was that she was pretty.

* * *

 A few months later, Toris has largely got the hang of his job at the Braginski manor. The most important thing for him to remember is to stay out of the way of anyone of higher rank, which narrows it down to five people, give or take a few long-time servants. Foremost is Lord Braginski, who seems only to have hired Toris and the rest of their adolescent staff as a charity project. The idea may have been that of Lady Braginski, the second person of rank, because Toris can’t think of the cold, unsmiling, rumbling-voice Lord Braginski as the one to take in orphans and children in poverty.

Then there are the children. Yekaterina, he learns, is the oldest daughter at seventeen years old. She is the only one to smile and thank any of the servants she sees, but Toris hasn’t had this luck because she refuses to bother the kitchen servants, and Toris can’t often leave the kitchen. The middle child is a thirteen-year-old boy, Ivan. He smiles too, but constantly and vacantly, as if imagining himself somewhere else. He enters the kitchen for bread, and sometimes he likes to sit at one of the staff tables and watch Toris cook, which is slightly unnerving.

Natalia, Toris has already met, and continues to meet with very limited dialogue. She wants tea. She wants a cookie. She wants a slice of the cake only Elizabeta can make.

Most often, she wants a small meal to carry. These are on weekends, Toris has learned, but she appears on the occasional weekday too. The days she requests a meal, she leaves through a small door in the back of the kitchen overlooking the garden and beyond that, the woods. Toris strongly considers making small talk about the occasion, but the look she gives him as he slices bread and cheese for sandwiches silences him.

Today is a Tuesday. Toris is preparing Lady Braginski’s favorite soup for the rainy day when the kitchen door swings open with more force than usual. He turns around and smiles, expecting it to be Elizabeta, but instead he makes eye contact with Natalia. No, Mistress Braginski, he has to remind himself.

Mistress Braginski looks at him with disgust, something she hasn’t done before. She looks through Toris, mostly, or gives a sharp but small nod of gratitude, but this sneer is new. Before Toris can apologize or avoid eye contact or do anything that won’t get him fired, she stomps into the kitchen and to the table they use for meats, where she extracts two cutting knives from a wooden block and stabs the larger one into the cutting board.

Toris stirs the soup in tiny whirlpools, frowning in concern. When Mistress Braginski yanks the knife out and stabs it in the cutting board again, he winces. He’d been wondering where those knife marks came from.

“For all your trips to the woods,” he says quietly, “I would imagine you leave more marks in the trees.”

He doesn’t mean to be heard. He says it absently, murmuring it, but the next thing he knows, the girl is at his back and the tip of a knife—the small one, he realizes when he sees the large one still in the cutting board—tickling the small of his back.

“And what do you know of my trips to the woods?” Mistress Braginski hisses.

Toris gulps. “Not a thing, miss.”

She leaves the knife there for a heavy moment, and then withdraws.

“Nor should you,” she says as gruffly as a ten-year-old can. “It’s not your place.”

She makes to move away, but apparently Toris has a death wish, because his mouth betrays him.

“With all due respect, miss, I would think my place and yours don’t often overlap.”

Mistress Braginski’s nostrils flare, and Toris braces himself for the knife’s tip to be returned somewhere on his person. He’s unprepared for the girl to instead turn back to the cutting board and fling the knife onto it.

“And are you going to tell me to return to my lessons too?” she snaps at him.

Toris slowly turns from the pot to get a proper look at her. One foot is out as if she’s just stomped, as if she were throwing a tantrum. Her hands are in fists, already regretting the absence of kitchen knives. The rest of her is unruffled, but the heavy way in which she breathes tells Toris that the knives were in fact necessary for her to calm herself down. It hasn’t worked so far.

“I can’t tell you to do anything, miss,” he says with a bow of his head.

“Then don’t.”

Toris nods, head still bowed. Mistress Braginski doesn’t leave, though she does loosen slightly. One hand reaches up to adjust her bow, already perfectly placed on her head. She picks up her skirts and sits at the small table her brother always sits at. She folds her arms, extends and crosses her legs, and stares down at her feet.

Toris can see that her fingers twitch to grab the knives again, but doesn’t understand why she won’t take them. The small of his back tingles in gratitude, and slowly, slowly, he turns back to the soup. He and Mistress Braginski spent several quiet minutes in the same room, Toris adding spices and bits of vegetable and Mistress Braginski—well, sitting.

“Do you have words?”

The question comes out of nowhere. Toris doesn’t make the mistake of turning and looking her in the eyes; he’s been forward enough today. “No, miss—Lord Braginsky had me screened.”

“Show me.”

Now Toris can’t avoid it. He steps away from the soup and rolls up his sleeve to show Mistress Braginski his pale, blank forearm.

She analyzes it for a few moments, then nods. Toris rolls down his sleeve and takes the opportunity to step back to the meat counter, prying the knife from the cutting board it was embedded in to make room for the already-cooked chicken he’s about to dice.

He doesn’t know what Mistress Braginski was expecting. Commoners like Toris almost never have words—the first words their soulmate will ever say to them, written in that soulmate’s handwriting. The words appear on the forearm when one’s soulmate has mastered basic reading and writing. Such a privilege, though, lies only with the wealthy, the educated, and others whom the law blesses with the right to read.

Of course Toris doesn’t have words. His soulmate could never be of such rank.

“Your soulmate is a commoner.”

Toris nods in agreement. “Probably, miss.”

“Do you want to meet her?”

Toris smiles slightly, but tries to hide it for propriety’s sake. “It would be nice. But I’m busy enough as it is.”

“Cooking our food.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And what if you weren’t busy?”

“Then yes, miss.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Toris cocks his head, and risks a glance at Mistress Braginski as he prepares another piece of chicken for cutting.

“Not even if I couldn’t be more bored,” she confirms. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I see.”

“You don’t agree.” She says this sharply, as if by extending him the one-time courtesy of conversation, she expects absolute submission to her opinions.

Toris says nothing. He’s not sure what will do the trick.

“How could you want to meet something as ridiculous as a soulmate?” Mistress Braginski crows. “How do you even know they exist?”

“I couldn’t say, miss.”

“No, you couldn’t.” Mistress Braginski slumps back into her chair and crosses her arms, as if to say “so there.”

“…But you’re not even a little curious, miss?”

She eyes him. “Not a little. Or else I would be at my writing lesson now.”

Toris isn’t surprised that she’s learning to write at the age of almost eleven; girls learn later than boys, usually, so that they can finish with matters of etiquette before moving onto academia. He is surprised, though, to meet someone who doubts the existence of soulmates when that person comes from nobility, the class in which it’s most fashionable and possible to have one. He wonders if she’s rejecting the concept of soulmates, or simply the fetishizing way that the noble class treats them.

“And if there were someone who loved you, miss, wouldn’t you want to know?” he probes, intentionally looking away.

“Brother loves me. Sister loves me. I don’t need anyone else.”

“If I’m not mistaken, soulmates aren’t a need. Miss.”

Silence. Toris turns to find Mistress Braginski raising an eyebrow.

“They’re a want. If they were a need, many of us wordless would be dead of deprivation.” Toris smiles slightly to himself. “Besides, I can think of no better way to show how much you want someone than to have your handwriting there for them to see.”

At this Mistress Braginski is quiet again, but when Toris glances back from his work, he finds her looking at her own cloth-covered forearm and frowning.

“So…if I want Brother, for example, then my handwriting will appear on his forearm?”

Toris blinks. “That, um, isn’t—”

But before he can impart his limited knowledge of how soulmate words work, Mistress Braginski is already standing from her chair. “And then he’ll see my words,” she mutters, “and he’ll remember how we used to play together—and he’ll make time from his awful lessons and we can walk together in the woods, just as we used to!”

Toris watches as Mistress Braginski hastily exits the kitchen, presumably to track down the tutor who is likely puzzling over her absence. He shakes his head and carries the cutting board to the pot of soup, scraping the chicken bits into the soup. He strongly doubts that Ivan—Master Braginski—is going to end up being Natalia’s soulmate, and he doesn’t want to be held at knifepoint again when Natalia finds this out. But so long as she remains convinced that she’s not doing well enough in her studies for it to work, it’s not yet his problem.

He chuckles a little as he stirs the soup. Between love for a soulmate she may meet only years later and love for the brother she seems to look up to so much, at least she has her priorities in order.

* * *

**Year Two**

“You’re totally sure this is it?”

“That’s what she said—red shutters, tulips at the front.”

“It looks too”—Feliks scours the place with his eyes—“ _clean_ to be the place.”

“Well, and what did you imagine?” Toris says with a low voice, unsure of whether the passerby know what this place is supposed to be.

“I was kind of imagining a black market sort of thing,” says Feliks with a shrug. “You know, everyone in dark clothes and hats, people opening up their cloaks to offer what they’re selling—”

“Feliks,” Toris groans and rubs his forehead.

“What?”

“Just—let’s go in, alright?” _And keep it down,_ he begs in his mind. He steps into the small garden in front of the house, and Feliks looks both ways as shiftily as he can before following.

They’re a mile or two away from the Braginski manor, at a cottage on the outskirts of the nearby harbor town, on the day off that Toris gets every two weeks. Feliks has been a very good friend to walk all the way from the city to visit Toris on those days, and Toris is grateful. Feliks and Elizabeta have immediately struck up a friendship, for which Toris is even more grateful.

But when Toris woke up a few days ago to find a full sentence on his forearm, and when Elizabeta found him a pale paste to cover the marks from the Braginskis’ eyes and told him of a reader—well, in their year and a half of acquaintance Toris was never happier to have known the girl. And never happier to have Feliks accompany him.

Toris still can’t quite believe his circumstances, and pulls his left sleeve down nervously as he steps onto the doorstep and knocks. He imagines this is something all the other newly-worded people do, though, so he quits as soon as he realizes he’s doing it.

After the sound of some bustling and footsteps, the door opens to reveal a smiling young woman with short blonde hair and an apron that reminds Toris of Natalia—Mistress Braginski—on her more casual days.

“May I help you?” the young woman asks.

“Ah, yes, I—”

“Elizabeta sent us,” jumps in Feliks with a grandiose gesture. Normally he’s a little shy, but his illusions of a literal black market are apparently still fresh in his mind and make him feel bold. “Told us to look for Lars. You know him?”

“Oh, yes, he’s my cousin,” the woman says cheerily. “Please, come in.”

Toris can’t believe how easy this is. They’re about to break the _law,_ to come into contact with someone who will read Toris’s forearm and not register him or report him to the authorities. It shouldn’t be this easy. Nor should the scene of the crime be a quaintly decorated bed-and-breakfast. They’re welcomed into a well-lit dining room with wooden chairs and tables with pristine white tablecloths. The girl—Marie, she introduces herself as—shoos them into two seats and informs them that someone will be out with tea.

“Adorable place, huh?” Feliks says.

“No kidding,” says Toris, but he’s not really looking at the décor now that he’s seated. His eyes stray, as they have for the past few days, to his forearm. He only has so many long-sleeved shirts, and they’re going to be entering summer once the rainy season ends. He’s not sure how ready he is to wear short-sleeve shirts now that he has words, now that he can stare at his own limb and know now—for sure—that someone is promised to him.

The main reason he wants a reader is, of course, for curiosity’s sake. Feliks is his friend and therefore his main bulwark in keeping that curiosity alive, or else Toris will worry himself into the poor position of keeping himself ignorant for the sake of bliss and fear. Anyone who knows their own words can be accused of having learned to read and not been registered, or of knowing where the other readers and record smugglers are. But what is the purpose of having words if he doesn’t have the meaning behind them?

Speaking of registration, his second reason for taking up Elizabeta’s offer of a reader concerns his job. Lord Braginski screens every employee upon their hiring, and depending on whose words Toris has, Lord Braginski may find Toris to be a powerful bargaining tool for another noble family. Or an impediment to the Braginski family’s honor, if Lord Braginski appears to be harboring the soulmate of someone being sought out. Both stories are circulated in the rumor mills, and Toris firmly believes in knowing what he’s up against.

Even if his mere presence here could have him arrested.

A throat clears, and Toris looks up to find a boy with hair over one eye dressed in a sharp waistcoat, and carrying a tray of tea. Instead of placing the tray on the table, as is custom in the Braginski manor, he hands the tray to Toris. Toris takes it automatically, and one side of the boy’s mouth lifts up in a grin.

“A reading, huh?”

Toris realizes that, in the act of reaching up, his sleeve has slipped down slightly to reveal the last word on his arm. He sets the tray down as quickly as he can, making the cups rattle and the teapot spill a little.

“Relax—it’s policy,” the boy says. “We can’t have police around, you understand.”

“And like, what if the police have words too?” Feliks asks.

“Based on how jumpy your friend is, I’m going to guess he’s not police.” The boy shrugs. “But now that we have that established, let’s talk prices.”

“Ooh!” Feliks straightens in his chair, and then assumes what he thinks is a bargaining face. “Your offer?”

“Ten for the first two words, twenty to have the whole thing read, fifty to be told which noble families have been registered, and two hundred for access to our own archives of unregistered nobles.”

Toris is gaping at how high the prices grow. Feliks frowns. “And what if his soulmate is a merchant?”

“We have those records too, but they’re incomplete. Seventy-five.”

“What? Thirty!”

“It’s a big database. More merchants than nobles. But everyone likes to dream big, so of course we offer nobles first.”

“And you don’t have any sort of two-for—”

“Feliks, please,” Toris says. His mind is spinning a little from the possibilities of the identity of his soulmate. “Maybe the words will give me a hint.”

“Those are the pre-reading prices,” the boy points out. “After the reading, there’s a fifteen-percent markup.”

“What a scam!” cries out Feliks.

The boy looks amused. “And I’d like to see _your_ smuggled registration records.”

Feliks looks ready to be even more indignant for his friend when steps come down the stairs. A loud voice is talking.

“So how many more, then?”

“What, lessons? Five or six, I’d say.”

“Alright, but you’d better be serious this time. Grossvati’s beginning to notice the money I’m sneaking out of his purse.”

“You could always get a job, ya know.”

“What, like you did?” The two figures have reached the bottom of the steps, entering the dining area. One is tall with blond hair and a blue and white scarf, and the other has hair so light it looks almost white. The latter is speaking. “Your connections don’t count, Lars, unless you’re hiring!”

The man with the scarf shrugs. “I’m still not giving you any discounts, Gil. I hear Kirkland’s assistants may quit soon. Go bother him if you need money.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. The awesome me will get the money somehow. So I’ll see you next week if your prices don’t kill me, ja?”

“Ja, ja, goodbye,” says the scarf man. Gil shuts the door.

“How are his lessons?” asks the boy from Toris’s and Feliks’s table.

“Could probably reach basic in four or five,” the scarf man reports. “But I’m not going to have him come complaining to me that it’s not working when his soulmate doesn’t find him and throw herself at his feet. So, one extra.” He sees Toris and Feliks. “Next appointment?”

“This one”—the boy points to Toris—“needs a reader.”

“No lessons?”

“To read?” Toris gulps. This Gil guy was so brazen about the whole thing. “No, no thank you—just the reading, please. Full sentence.”

“Haven’t seen a sentence in a while,” says the man. “I’ll take it from here, Lucien.”

“You’re the boss,” says the boy—Lucien—as he leaves the table.

The scarf man turns to Toris. He looks to be in his late teens or early twenties, but acts much older. Toris instantly believes that this is the guy Elizabeta was talking about, though he finds it hard to believe some of the grittier details about the illegal dealings his merchant family makes, or the bastard background of his two cousins. Apparently Marie’s bed-and-breakfast hides a lot more than literacy.

“You’re Lars?” Feliks says, but it’s quieter, either because his shyness is kicking back in or because the man is staring at them so strongly.

Lars grunts in acknowledgement. He looks at Toris. “Just the reading, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing more?”

“That’s all I have the money for.” And it’s true—he’ll have to save his wages for a few more months to afford anything more complex. He produces the two silver coins from his pocket and sets them on the table.

“Arm.” Lars apparently wastes no time. Toris rolls up his sleeve, his heart beating faster as his fingers trace across his skin.

This is it, he thinks as Lars peers down at the writing. It’s a little shaky, but in cursive, so his soulmate is probably of a higher rank for the style of the handwriting. Maybe a low-rank noble family. Maybe a high-rank merchant family with noble ties.

He wonders if his soulmate is beautiful. If she’ll recognize him when they first meet, if she’ll have a sweet voice or a sweet laugh or—

Lars clears his throat. “‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’”

\--or a sweet face.

* * *

The next time he hears her voice, he drops a pan of cookies.

She stares at him from the doorway, watching him fumble on his knees for the gooey not-yet-baked shapes before his knee bumps into the pan and it makes an awful clanging sound on the stone floor. His face is red and he can’t stand to look up at her.

Ever since he returned to the manor he’s locked himself in his closet-sized room in the farthest corner of the Braginski manor, leaving only for work or to take meals with the servants. Elizabeta has had the good grace not to ask how his day off was, but Eduard and Raivis are asking what has him looking so haunted.

He doesn’t know why. He knows exactly why. He doesn’t know how he feels about having Natalia—Mistress Braginski, _Mistress Braginski—_ as his soulmate, but he absolutely knows that Lord Braginski can’t know. Or else Toris will lose his job and be sent back to the harbor, back to where he has no parents and no place to sleep, and he’s too old to beg and too young to be employed, and if the Braginskis find him out then of course they’ll register him, and then every job he applies for will weigh his political leverage and his every move will be monitored to make sure that he can never bring himself within a hundred miles of—

Alright, maybe best to stop thinking about that.

Mistress Braginski is about to turn twelve years old, and Toris is going on sixteen. He feels gangly and awkward, and even after a year and a half of working for the Braginski manor, he hasn’t stopped thinking that Mistress Braginski was pretty. But this soulmate idea has his head spinning, and she’s _twelve,_ and all he can do is admire her from afar. Possibly forever.

Which is difficult when it looks like she’s due to go out again and needs her lunch.

“A sandwich,” she repeats once Toris has collected the majority of the unbaked cookies from the floor. He’ll have to remake the batter, but at least he hasn’t wasted much time in baking them before dropping the pan.

“Of—of course, Miss Braginski.” Toris drops the cookies on the counter and scrambles over to the bread pantry. Mistress Braginski sits in what Toris has deemed the spectator’s chair, and watches Toris fumble over meat and cheese and a vegetable or two. He wraps the sandwich in a napkin and turns and—

How is he supposed to give it to her without looking her in the eye?

He makes to hand it to her, but one hand is propping up her chin and the other is firmly in her lap, so she doesn't reach for it. Placing the sandwich in her lap is out of the question. He changes direction in midair and slightly bumps her elbow with the sandwich as he sets it on the table. He then swivels around and starts looking for the flour to remake his cookie batter, only to remember that it’s—

Right. At. Her table.

He freezes, and he’s certain that his ears and neck are as red as his face, and Natalia probably knows everything by now and he just doesn’t want to know how foolish he will look to her, or how upset she will sound when she realizes that her handwriting, meant for her brother’s arm only, is instead on his.

He busies his hands with wiping chalky flour off of the counter, regardless that he’s just wiping around the cookies and will have to clean the counter again when he throws them away. Behind him, he hears her slowly stand up and walk away. Or rather, walk towards him.

A heavy bag is set by his elbow, and she slips away and out the back door.

Toris lets out a breath. He looks at the bag. She’s given him sugar, not flour. Well, he thinks with a shaky chuckle, he needs that too.

And then he reexamines the bag. And looks out the back door, where he can see her retreating form cutting through the garden.

She likes cookies, doesn’t she?

* * *

“What is this?”

“Your lunch, miss.” Toris has gone back to using “miss” and not her family name. He just doesn’t know how to say the full name every single time.

“…It’s not a sandwich.”

“It is, miss. Just with a few extra things.”

Natalia—Mistress Braginski—opens the small bag to find her usual napkin-wrapped sandwich, plus an apple and something else wrapped in linen. She reaches in to find two small cookies. One is her favorite flavor, but the other—

“I’ve been experimenting with flavors. I hope you like it.”

And Toris hopes she does. He’s not trying to buy her affection, he swears it. But he’d be lying if he said he wants to be interchangeable with Elizabeta.

Mistress Braginski closes the napkin and places the cookies back into the bag, nestled next to the apple. With a brief glance at him, she steps to the back door and out.

“She’s addicted to oatmeal raisin, you know,” calls Elizabeta from the stove. “That’s probably going to end up on the forest floor.”

“Even if it does,” says Toris as he returns to dish duty, “I’ll be happy I gave it.”

Elizabeta smirks.

* * *

**Year Three**

Natalia comes in smelling of horses. “I want chicken,” she announces.

Toris quickly stashes the bagged sandwich he prepared for her. “Of course, miss.”

He sets about cutting up pieces of chicken and preheats the oil on the stove, and turns to notice that Natalia has pulled out a book. He smiles slightly to himself. And she thought she didn’t want to learn to read. He hopes it’s interesting. Lars offered to teach him to read, citing the borrowing of novels as a popular reason for servants, but Toris isn’t about to tempt fate more than he is just by living in this manor day after day.

He confesses that it’s worth it to see her in this kitchen as he works, on the days where she’s not frustrated over something or another. She frowns as she concentrates, and her eyes crinkle in a way that Toris suspects is similar to her smiling.

Toris sets a plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli on the table just behind her book. She doesn’t acknowledge it at first, but as he returns to preparations for Lady Braginski’s lunch, he sees her snatching morsels of food from the plate with her fork as she reads.

He knew he’d been right to dice the chicken.

* * *

**Year Four**

“Make cake next time,” Natalia says. Normally when she comes back from her afternoons in the woods, she leaves the linens that once held sandwiches and snacks on the table to be washed and reused. Now she lingers in her returns, if only to leave comments or orders.

“Yes, miss,” Toris says, and he risks a slight smile. Truth be told, he’s a little relieved to have some variety to work with—he’s baked every sort of portable pastry he can think of until he knows the recipes by heart, and tried at least five different sorts of bread for her sandwiches. So far he hasn’t been able to discern which were her favorites, but he hopes to read something in the way she returns and leaves her mess to be cleaned.

Natalia looks ready to leave, but stops in the doorway. “Chocolate, if you can,” she instructs.

Toris’s small smile grows wider. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Once Natalia has left and Toris has entered the period between lunch’s clean-up and dinner’s preparation, he sits down with a cookbook. No, he can’t read it, but the images often give him ideas, and the numbers and drawings of ingredients are usually sufficient instruction for him. Cakes aren’t so complicated, and the rest he can learn by collaborating with Elizabeta—who, he remarks, is being summoned remarkably often by the elder Mistress Braginski.

Toris isn’t about to pry, just like Elizabeta isn’t about to offer him more than a playful jab or two concerning the younger mistress. He knows that the elder mistress is making her family tense with her failure to marry, and he can’t begrudge her for wanting the company of even a younger kitchen servant.

It hasn’t been for lack of trying that Miss Yekaterina hasn’t married; the family has been combing the registrations for her soulmate’s handwriting, hoping to keep up with the tradition of matching “proper” soulmates with one another. The logic goes that two noble families whose children have each other’s writing are more “fit” for their titles than those whose children have the writing of lesser nobles or worse, commoners.

After so much scouring of the records, though, the Braginskis have turned to matchmakers and their services. Toris hopes that Miss Yekaterina won’t have to face any of those eastern inks which permanently imprint words where none were before. Equally unfortunate would be a staging, but as Miss Yekaterina lacks words herself, no one would be able to say her words to force a bond.

Toris doesn’t realize he’s lost in thought until the middle Braginski child wanders into the kitchen. Master Braginski eyes him. He’s rather husky for a fifteen-year-old, and his daydreaming eyes have gained some sharpness.

“You are not going to run away like Raivis, are you?” he asks, as if speaking of the weather.

Toris knows Raivis and his fear of that unending gaze. Toris isn’t fond of it either, but he’s at least going to be polite about it. As the elder, at almost seventeen, he ought to be. To say nothing of his lower status.

“Of course not,” he says as he starts to stand. “Please, sit.”

“ _Da,_ I will.” Master Braginski settles himself in what Toris has come to think of as Natalia’s chair. Toris knows he can’t just rest while a master of the house is present, so he decides to take inventory of things he will need for tomorrow’s cake.

“Sisters are very strange,” says Master Braginski.

Toris can recognize a need for a listening ear when he sees one. “Oh?”

“The sister I wish would stay has to leave the house to get married,” says Master Braginski, “and the one whom I wish would marry is trying to stay here.”

Toris feels a twinge of defensiveness for Natalia. “We all have our duties,” he says as neutrally as he can. “And they both love you.”

“Da, but that is the strange part. They both say they are doing these things because they love me.”

Toris isn’t sure why, after three years of intermittently sharing the same kitchen, he needs to be privy to this information now. He says nothing, and Master Braginski continues.

“Natalia especially is very worrying. She checks my arm every day for her writing, and when it is not there, she becomes angry. Then she disappears.”

 _She comes here,_ Toris thinks, _to play with the knives. At least sometimes she takes them outside, though I do need them from time to time to make dinner._ From the look of the marks on the cutting board, her aim is vastly improving.

“Does she scare you?” asks Master Braginski.

Toris decides to keep the conversation focused on the young master. “I think Miss Natalia isn’t very familiar with how to express her feelings, Master Braginski. She doesn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Yes, but she does.”

“She can’t help it, Master Braginski, not unless you let her know. When you look past how she is when she’s angry, you may find that she’s—”

 _This winter,_ he thinks, _when she brought in three pinecones and a ball of string and asked for molasses and seeds to feed the birds,_ and

 _Last spring,_ he thinks, _when she came in as we were cleaning the dishes from that night’s ball and nearly fell asleep at the table as she waited for a biscuit and some milk,_ and

 _Yesterday,_ he thinks, _when she said “please” for the first time since we’ve met_

“—sweet.”

He can tell Master Braginski doesn’t quite believe him.

“If you say so,” he says. “Maybe she is different for servants, _da?”_

Toris kind of hopes so.

* * *

**Year Five**

Feliks groans as he bites into another pastry. “God, and Toris, you made this?”

Toris is a little amused. “I did, yes.”

“With what, angel dust?”

“No, just—some flour, and some sugar, and maybe some cinnam—”

“Shh, no, don’t ruin it for me, you totally _genius_ chef.”

Toris laughs a little. “Well, I’m glad you like it.”

They’re sitting in a small woods at the side of the manor, under the shelter of a drooping tree where the snow isn’t as deep. Feliks has been unfailing in visiting Toris for nearly every day off that Toris has had at the manor. For the occasion of his eighteenth birthday—or about when he guesses it to be—Toris has used a few scraps of the Braginski supplies to prepare some cakes for himself, the staff, and Feliks to share.

“So, I’m gonna guess this isn’t the first time you’ve made this?” Feliks asks.

“Oh, no,” says Toris.

Feliks looks a little thoughtful. “I totally shouldn’t be surprised,” he says. “But don’t you want to, like, try something new for your birthday? For yourself?”

“But—no.” Toris shakes his head. “Everything I make is for me, anyway. For me to see if she likes it.”

“You’re hopeless,” says Feliks, pushing Toris on the shoulder. “It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

“Four,” replies Toris.

“And what’s happened in all that time?”

“What do you expect me to say? She’s not about to go swooning into my arms.”

“Then why are you doing—this?” Feliks waves the half-finished pastry. “I haven’t even had my words, but you don’t see me sitting around waiting for anyone.”

“You wouldn’t know who you were waiting for, Feliks.”

“And you’re waiting for something that—” Feliks cuts himself off.

Toris looks at his friend.

“…That might not even happen,” Feliks sighs.

Toris sits back, leaning against the tree they’re sitting under. He stares out at the snow-covered grounds, and their footprints that have led them here. He knows Mistress Braginski is somewhere deeper in the woods. He knows she’s started eating his chocolate pastries first. He knows she’ll pick out the eggplant of any sandwich he prepares. He knows that when Elizabeta hands her the lunches, on those rare occasions where he’s simply too pressed, Natalia doesn’t say anything, but for him she has a comment, whether she intends to or not.

He also knows that the marriage of the elder Mistress Braginski has Natalia in the woods more often than ever, and she’s avoiding lessons again, and she sends back her dinner untouched on the nights that Eduard reports the topic of Natalia’s marriage has been raised. He knows that Master Braginski, now more occupied than ever with his own balls and get-togethers and lessons, will no longer request that his sister accompany him, and he knows how much it breaks her heart from the way she no longer makes birdfeeders or steals stale bread for the squirrels when she thinks he isn’t looking.

He knows that sometimes the portable meals he prepares are the only meals she eats all day.

“I know,” says Toris. “I know I don’t have a chance.”

“Toris,” says Feliks, “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, Feliks, you’re right. She can’t look anywhere but at herself and her family. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking after her, even if I can’t look at her. Even if she were older, even if she warmed up to the idea of marriage or soulmates or anything else to do with me.”

Feliks pauses. And then scoffs. “You’re such a hopeless romantic, Toris.”

Toris grins slightly. “I can’t help it.”

“It’s the words’ fault, you know,” says Feliks. “But, like, if you ever stop looking at your own forearm and your little princess and all—”

“She’s not my—”

“Listen. I’ve been thinking—we’re eighteen now. We’re old enough that we can make our own work. So like, what if we were to start a business or something?”

Toris furrows his brow. “A business?”

“Yeah! Like a bakery—because god, Toris, have you tasted these things you’re making for that girl?”

Toris frowns. “And what would you do?”

“Oh, I’d be marketing and sales, definitely.”

“Sure. You and your shyness of strangers.”

“What? I love people! And I already have a few people in town whom I’ve told about your cooking. And there’s this really cute place near the ports, and—”

Toris realizes Feliks has thought about this more than he was expecting. “Feliks, neither of us know how to write. How are we supposed to read the documents you need to start a business, or do the finances or the inventory?”

“Isn’t that what you’re always doing in the Braginski kitchens? Come on, Toris—you have to admit it’ll be a nice change!” And Feliks is looking at him with eyes he hasn’t pulled out since they were children on the streets, when Feliks was asking for protection and a bit of warmth and Toris didn’t know how to say no. These were the same eyes Toris faced when he informed Feliks of his new live-in job, when Toris first had to deny him so he could save enough money for them both.

He’s been loyal in sharing whatever pay he earns with Feliks, and with that and the odd jobs that Feliks has had while Toris has been at work, Feliks probably has the money as well as the vision for this bakery of his. And now Toris realizes that he faces the same choice he did years ago, sitting in front of Feliks and trying to explain what he wants for both of them, what he wants for himself.

But as Feliks has just said, Toris is unlikely to get what he wants, what he allows himself to dream of late in the night when he can’t fall asleep easily.

Toris has taught himself to want smaller things.

“Just…let me think about it, alright?” asks Toris.

Feliks’s face falls.

“Just until I know she’s okay,” Toris continues. “It’s rough for her now.”

“And you’re going to, what, bake her better?”

Toris’s expression hardens slightly. “If that’s what it takes.”

Feliks slumps. “I never could talk you out of doing crazy things. First for me, now for her, I guess. So.” He hoists himself up from the ground, then turns and offers a hand to Toris. Like so many times in their lives, Toris takes it. “I can see I’m going to have to step up my game. How about I buy that place downtown?”

“That’s not exactly what I—”

“No, Toris, just trust me on this one. You’ll see, it’ll be great. By the time you arrive, it’ll be all ready for you, and we’ll have the best business ever!” Feliks has talked himself into ecstasy, and Toris rolls his eyes and smiles. They reach the side of the manor, near where the stables are. Feliks and the other guests of servants have to leave this way.

“Let me know, then, I suppose,” says Toris. “Oh, and here.” He takes out a few cookies from his pocket, wrapped in a shabby but clean linen that the Braginskis were going to throw out. “For the road back.”

“Ah, Toris, you’re the greatest.” Feliks swallows him in a hug, and Toris pats him on the back. They break apart, and Feliks leaves with a final “Happy birthday!”

Toris stands there for a few moments, just waving. He wonders if Feliks really is going to buy a bakery. Toris’s own participation remains to be seen, but this is the most determined he’s seen Feliks in a while.

“Who was that?”

Toris nearly jumps, and turns around to see Natalia emerging from the woods near the stables, in a more southern direction than where he and Feliks came from.

“Oh! It’s—he’s an old friend.”

Natalia eyes him. “I see him here from time to time.”

Toris nods. “On my days off, miss.” Or at least, he hopes. He loves Feliks, but he will strangle him if Feliks is trying to visit when he shouldn’t.

Natalia looks at him as if considering something. Toris stands there, unsure of what she wants. At fourteen, she is starting to grow into her full height, which appears to be half a head shorter than Toris. Her form remains lithe but sturdy, and her skirts are becoming longer but don’t hide her certain step. He can’t imagine her growing more graceful.

“I hope you were not giving him the chocolate chip cookies.”

This is what’s on her mind? “No, miss,” he says uncertainly. “Only sugar.” And then he winces. What if she’s angry that he’s using Braginski family property to make food for his friends? He debated buying his own supplies, but with the banquets that have been arranged to celebrate the elder Mistress Braginski’s upcoming marriage, Toris didn’t have the time to go to market.

Natalia nods sharply. “The chocolate chip cookies are for me.”

Toris is so startled he laughs very slightly. Natalia looks at him with a strange expression as he agrees. “Yes, miss. Only for you.”

Her possession of cookie flavors assured, Natalia makes to walk back into the house via the stables. Toris is about to trek back to the kitchen entrance, when he sees Natalia stop herself at the doorway. He pauses too, wondering if she’s going to place her order for lunch.

“Happy birthday. Toris.”

It takes Toris ten full seconds to summon the breath for any response at all, but in those ten seconds, she is gone.

* * *

**Year Six**

“Marriage is still awful.”

Natalia opens her monologue as Toris is preparing that night’s dessert. He looks up and makes eye contact, but otherwise remains silent as a gesture for her to go on.

“I am talking with Sister for the first time after her wedding, and she says everything is fine, but she and her husband are simply too— _sweet.”_ She spits out the word.

“Something wrong with sweet, miss?”

“I don’t believe it. This Matthew—he shouldn’t be so polite. Let alone to his wife.”

“Oh?”

“He is her husband. He should be strong for her. Not kind.”

Toris’s hand slips a little at this, and he has to dab off the last trail of frosting he was applying.

“Husbands are for support. And Sister is weak, she needs support, but all Father does is find another simpering man to marry her!”

“Are—are the Williams not a high-rank family?” asks Toris. From all the food he and Elizabeta were asked to prepare, one would think Yekaterina Braginski was marrying a king.

“Oh, they are high enough for the firstborn daughter of a Braginski. But it is not the family, it is that man, if I can call him such. Too weak!”

Toris decides his hands are not going to be stable enough for decorating right now. He decides to take some water, and boils some too in case Natalia wants tea.

He has been lapsing. She is Mistress Braginski, fifteen years old, and her brother is coming of age, and two more Braginski marriages are being discussed. Toris is nineteen and past the age where it matters whether he’s an orphan, and Feliks is reminding him of this, reminding him that they have options, reminding him that Toris said this job would last until he could get another, reminding him that Feliks _has_ another for him—

Toris takes a shuddering breath. Another job, at the cost of leaving this one. Natalia’s—Mistress Braginski’s—rants in the kitchen have become more common, and Elizabeta has found ways to keep her distance. This suits both of them, as Toris handles the dinners and Mistress Braginski’s company so that Elizabeta can slip away to town to search.

Words have appeared on Elizabeta’s arm. They appeared before Yekaterina’s wedding, when the two women would spend hours of every night together under the pretense of Elizabeta serving tea. With Yekaterina married, Elizabeta has begun to pursue her own destiny. Toris knows he should logically disapprove, but he can’t imagine how tough it must be to have words but not a face attached. So he covers for her.

This arrangement leaves him alone with Mistress Braginski, and if she notices Elizabeta’s absence, she says nothing, instead choosing to rant about the evils of marriage and the false conception of soulmates. She threatens many times to marry her own brother before letting a soulmate enter her life, although she seems to have dropped the childhood conception that her brother _is_ her soulmate.

On one hand, Toris is flattered to be her listening ear. On the other, he wonders how much of her attention is due to the limited number of people she encounters each day. Or—and these are the thoughts that keep him awake at night, now more than the image of her face—despite the paste on his arm, despite the sleeves he tries to keep bound to his wrists, she has seen the writing on his forearm and she _knows_ and she’s trying to tell him she’s not interested.

Toris has had to actively calm himself these days, to stop stirring the soup or chopping the vegetables to calm his racing thoughts.

He sips his water and stares after Mistress Braginski. Her elbows are on the table and she’s hunched over, glaring at the pattern on the tablecloth while muttering about weakness and husbands.

Toris catches one interesting sentence: “And he isn’t even her soulmate.”

“He isn’t?” Toris asks before he can think of a more polite way to say it. He shouldn’t be surprised by this; he had just hoped that the lengthy search period for Yekaterina’s soulmate had ended up fruitful.

Natalia looks up at him. “No. His words appeared during courtship. Father almost had a fit because he thought Sister and Matthew had already spoken to each other, but then Mother reminded him that only he and Lord Williams spoke during the dinner.”

Toris knows the basic steps of staging. One or both soulmates have words already present, but not in the handwriting of the intended. Even if the phrases don’t make sense when put together, the two say the words as their first to each other, in place of greetings. It creates an artificial bond that breaks the relationships that either had with their first soulmates.

Toris thinks of the smiling, gracious Mistress Braginski, lacking words herself and saying the words of another. He wonders if she felt anything, when the staging happened. He wonders if her soulmate saw his words—the words in Yekaterina Braginski’s handwriting—disappear from his forearm and ask himself if she had no choice.

“That poor man,” murmurs Toris as he takes another sip of water.

Natalia’s eyes focus on him. “Matthew?”

“No—her soulmate. I mean, Mistress Yekaterina’s soulmate, miss.”

Natalia looks at him as if his head has leaped off his body. “And so what?” she says. “He is probably just a commoner. He could never have met my sister, or been enough to take care of her. She is better off away from him.”

Toris pales.

“And she, with her blank arm—at least she had her choice of soulmates to replace him with. Father could have tattooed her, but he did not. She had only to say Matthew’s words, and now they can act as disgusting as they wish together.”

Toris is leaning against the counter, but at these words, he does the unthinkable. He sits in the chair across from Natalia, like an equal. His arms—his telltale arm, separated only from her eyes by fabric and pale paste—rest on his knees, and he clasps his hands together, staring at the floor and thinking.

To what will later be his astonishment, Natalia talks on as if this seating arrangement were completely natural.

* * *

**Year Seven**

Elizabeta is gone, fired, and Toris feels the kitchen walls closing in.

Eduard finally has a moment to slip away during the second day that Toris is working alone in the kitchen, to tell Toris the news. Lord Braginski saw Elizabeta’s words as she was helping serve breakfast yesterday, and flew into an outrage. He hires servants assuming they will remain wordless, he said, as if it is Elizabeta’s fault that her soulmate has become literate only in recent years. Elizabeta has been fired, and the rest of the staff will be examined for words over the next few hours.

Eduard leaves once he shares the news, sparing a worrying glance at his coworker who has gone still in the middle of the kitchen. For the next minutes—hours—whatever amount of time, Toris stands there.

They’re going to find him. He need not bake any bread today, no cookies today, because they will find him, and if Elizabeta can be fired after so many years of her utmost service, then Toris will not be spared a second glance. The only option Toris has is to find Feliks, run and start his damn bakery because Feliks has finally bought the shop after a year and a half of negotiation and hired readers and license applications, but if Toris is found then he will be registered, and if he is registered then Feliks will have to reapply for everything, and lose so much time and money because he cannot have a registered co-owner or even a registered employee without countless assurances that Toris will be kept away from the Braginskis, that no other noble family can claim him as collateral for a deal with the Braginskis, assuming that Natalia even chooses to _fight_ for him and—

And Natalia, Natalia who claims that her sister’s husband is weak, who wears her blank arm like a badge of pride, like a choice, like a symbol that she is not claimed, not bound, and Toris has been doing all he can not to claim her even in his thoughts, but it’s just not _enough_ and if he leaves will she even know, will they tell her why, will she even remember that she’s been talking to him, eating his food, sharing her thoughts, saying his _name_ on the best days, and—

How is he supposed to go on knowing that the one person he could ever miss is away from him, is choosing to be away from him, is spurning his advances even when he makes no advances, even when there’s nothing to spurn, and his love for her is ruining everything, _everything_ for him and Natalia and Feliks and probably the other servants too because now they will be watched for the smallest sign and it will be all his fault and—

The door closes. Toris barely hears it over his own beating heart. Everything sounds fuzzy, distant, like he’s submerged underwater. He’s heard of heart attacks, seen old men on the streets clench their chests and grit their teeth and fall over, their eyes not to reopen. His detached mind wonders if this is a heart attack.

Footsteps come closer. Someone comes in his field of view. She’s sixteen and he’s twenty, and she’s still half a head shorter than him.

He tries his hardest to level out his breathing. He can do nothing about his heartbeat, which beats twice as fast as usual and pounds between his ears and against his chest.

“Toris?”

He lets out a shuddering breath that sounds as if he’s been crying. He might start, but he doesn’t feel enough in control of his body to summon tears.

“Look at me.”

His eyes snap to hers. They are impatient, and icier than usual.

“What is happening.”

She is back to issuing demands, but Toris can’t voice a “yes, miss” or an “I don’t know, miss” or even her name, if he wanted, if he dared.

Her movements are much sharper than his. She takes him by the wrist and sits him in the spectator’s chair—her chair, and Ivan’s when he visits. Toris feels her grasp belatedly, feels like his arms take extra effort to lift, as if they have to move through piles of cotton and can easily collapse down to where they came from. When she lets go of his wrist, it falls in his lap, and he sits still.

He sees her open one cabinet, and then a second. She comes out with a teacup and fills it with water. She yanks the second chair from across the table from Toris, and drags it with a loud sound to rest next to where Toris is, facing him. She slams herself in the chair and the water on the table, where his hand can easily lift to reach it.

“Drink.”

Toris stares at her. It’s only the second time they’ve sat at the same level, and never so close.

“It is not a question. Drink.”

Toris lifts his arm. It’s still difficult to do, but less so than a moment ago. He can notice something besides his heartrate. It’s the taste of water.

He swallows three times before looking back at Natalia.

She is staring at him, her hands in her lap and her ankles crossed. She looks at him as if he’s an exhibit, something to be examined and figured out.

“I saw a starling today,” she says.

It’s Toris’s turn to stare.

“It had a very small tuft on its chest,” she continues. “It’s young. I knew its mother last spring, but I haven’t caught her feeding it yet. Her nest is in a part of the woods that is filled with aspen trees. The trees are white, but the nest hides among the brown stripes of the trees. In winter, it feels like I am walking in a cloud.”

Toris closes his eyes and accepts this imagery. He takes another sip of water.

“On the path there, there is a large willow tree. There I usually eat your sandwiches. The oak across the stream is where I practice my knives. I used to practice on a smaller tree on the other side, but my accuracy is so good that now I am working on distance. The birds make noise at the willow tree, but not at the oak.”

“I can’t imagine why,” responds Toris. His voice is small, very small, and he can’t quite smile. But it’s a start.

“Ivan and I carved our names in the oak tree,” Natalia says, matching his tone. “He tells me he misses it. That is why I only practice on one side of the tree. The other should be for him.”

Toris nods. He can take deeper breaths now.

He and Natalia both sit still, lost in Natalia’s images of the woods. Toris feels his heartrate fall, the weight come off his chest. He tries very hard not to think of the thoughts that brought him so far into himself and his fears. He’s with Natalia, and she was the one who made him sit.

Just as Toris is thinking of getting up and pouring himself some more water, he sees Natalia’s fingers rub against each other. He then looks at his sleeve. It’s slightly pulled up, and the paste that normally coats his arm is smudged. He can see black script underneath.

So can Natalia.

“When I asked you years ago if you had words—” she begins.

“I didn’t then,” says Toris.

“When, then?” she asks.

“Shortly after. A few months.”

“Show me.”

She doesn’t say this unkindly, but Toris can’t see a way to deny her. He takes a cleaning cloth from the table, dampens it with what’s left of the water, and wipes at his arm. With every scrub, his heartrate elevates back to his heart—panic—whatever-attack levels.

He knows exactly when she can read the words on his arm.

Toris stares with her, his arm resting on the table like a foreign object for them both to inspect. Her handwriting has improved, he realizes. He hasn’t let himself see it much, wearing long sleeves to bed and the paste every time he has to work. It can normally withstand a day of washing and sweating—anything longer-lasting would be out of his price range—but yesterday he fell asleep too early to reapply it, exhausted from doing the work of two and wondering why Elizabeta wasn’t there.

“Go.”

The single syllable yanks Toris fully from the momentary peace they’d shared. He knows better than to try to defend himself, or to bring it back.

He stands, but apparently he can’t do so fast enough.

 _“Go,”_ Natalia says, more forcefully. “Go! And don’t ever come back here.”

Toris thinks back to the things in his room. They aren’t many—some clothes, a few trinkets Feliks has brought for him over the years. Maybe he can ask Feliks to return on his behalf, come through the back door and talk Raivis or Eduard into retrieving them. He decides this more out of self-defense than practicality.

For once, he takes Natalia’s route, the back door leading into the garden. He hears shuffling behind him, but he knows he won’t be strong enough to look back. He’s weak, like she said. The minute the door closes, Toris hears a sick thwack of a knife on wood separating the blade from his head, and he knows that the walls aren’t closing in anymore—they’ve moaned and then fully collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Toris as struggling with anxiety and anxiety attacks, and I am so sorry.
> 
> I hope to have the second part posted within the next few days. I wanted to post it all at once, but the second part needs more time, and posting this is a promise to myself to finish.


	2. Natalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, the way for me to get something done is to have to urgently do something else. Which is why, when I told myself to update this, I worked on homework instead, and now that it's time for me to study for final exams, I'm updating.
> 
> I'm still not 100% satisfied with the ending, but I just have to get it published so I can focus on exams. My logic: once it's published, I can't change it, and therefore can't worry about it.
> 
> Fun fact: Natalia talks with fewer contractions when she's noble, and with more when she's not.

How dare he, how _dare he_.

Natalia still clenches her fists at the thought of his face. She remembers it better than she would like to.

She remembers the taste of chocolate chip cookies—chocolate, a flavor that was always in cakes but never concentrated in morsels before _he_ came. She remembers honey-drenched sweets and rich, hearty soups and thick, soft slices of bread and crisp apples and every variety of pastry she knew to exist, and a few more. She remembers the gentle transfer of something precious for her to eat, and the moments of silence as she read, as she daydreamed, as she talked.

He was weak. Weaker than her brother-in-law, weaker than any of the other servants who groveled when they even summoned the nerve to speak to her at all. He was weak for his smiles and his generosity and the hands that sometimes trembled when she spoke too strongly—but then, it was probably the topic more than the tone that intimidated him. She sees that now.

For the first few weeks after he leaves, Natalia stays silent. She says nothing of whether she saw the kitchen servant, not that her father would expect her to know, and when Ivan wonders aloud why he would have gone, Natalia shrugs. She doesn’t mention words. She doesn’t mention anything.

She doesn’t know why. After lying to her and her family, edging himself into her life and filling her with pastries and probably expecting something, someday, in return, he deserves registration. At the least. He deserves to stay away from her. She half-expects that he won’t—that her life will turn into one of the frilly romance novels her mother likes to read, where her soulmate will relentlessly pursue her attention and affection even after she turns him away. Toris might be that sort. She doesn’t know for sure what sort Toris is, except a liar, but he probably is that sort.

Some weeks later, she spies Raivis in the halls with some of Toris’s clothing in his arms. She follows him silently through the halls and to the garden, where Toris’s loud blond friend is waiting to take the bundle of possessions. Seeing the set jaw of the normally loud and flamboyant man, she realizes that Toris _isn’t_ that sort. He’s the sort who has always listened to her, even when she hasn’t said anything, and he’s going to listen to her now.

A few months later, three things happen in quick succession. She turns seventeen. Her father begins hunting for a proper spouse for her. And her words appear.

For all that she rants about her siblings’ words, she has never considered her own. She has never considered herself a victim of the double pang of wistfulness and pain that comes with seeing the slight, looping script of the merchant class.

_That’s a very pretty dress, miss._

He must be doing well, she thinks to herself every time she sees it. Between the last few sentences she heard between Toris and his friend on Toris’s birthday three years ago, and the polished way Toris’s friend was dressed as he came to collect Toris’s things, their business must have succeeded. Toris must have learned to write to keep the accounts, as she has seen his friend for a total of five minutes in her life and still knows that Toris is the better one to trust with such responsibility.

Now that she has words, her family has changed. Her father, who once ignored her, now summons her over so his contracted researchers can examine the handwriting once more, before they turn to the records of near-replicas of other nobles’ arms. If Natalia’s soulmate can be found among them, her family can atone for the secret shame of staging their oldest daughter’s match. Her mother smiles at her with more spirit, as if her soulmate will arrive in the near future to sweep her off her feet. Even Brother, her precious Brother, interacts with her more frequently and openly. Brother hasn’t yet married, nor has he received his words. Being son and heir, he has less pressure to marry early than either of his sisters do. They can afford to take their time—carry on his education, wait for words, weigh and potentially eliminate the soulmate in question, stage if necessary.

Talking with Brother isn’t as fun as it used to be. He listens more absently and with fewer questions, and almost never tries to counter her, gently or otherwise. He claims affection, but he gives no proof of it.

Natalia takes to scowling more. It wards off a good half of the men her father tries to point out to her at balls, teas, and dinners. The other half she shoves aside by going off-script, addressing them with what are surely not their words before her father can even make introductions.

She is quickly becoming a headache to everyone, including herself.

Really, how dare _she_. How dare she allow herself to compare, to wonder, to think about him. He doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t need it. Fate is simply playing with her, assigning her what she so often has refuted.

All those years ago, he was right. A soulmate isn’t a need. It’s a want. And while she absolutely does not need the company of anyone—not even Sister or Brother or Toris—her thoughts stray to him too often to be explained away with anger.

Now, for example. She is in a carriage with the rest of her family, on the way to her father’s latest staging attempt, and she has been staring at the words on her arm. The target today is one Lukas Bondevik, a quiet young man of the same age whom Natalia has only seen once or twice at social events. Lord Bondevik assures Lord Braginski that his son is compliant and noble, and of good blood. Natalia, in turn, is expected to provide the Braginski family with an honorable match and the Bondevik family with an heir.

Natalia is almost eighteen years old and has never once dreamt of being a mother. Or a wife. Or a soulmate, for that matter, but it seems that one has been thrust upon her despite her years of resistance. If she doesn’t keep trying, the rest will become her fate as well.

“Natalia.” Her father speaks as she looks out the window.

Natalia’s eyes flicker to him.

“Repeat his words to me.”

Natalia stays silent.

“Natalia.”

Natalia looks back out the window.

“You will not disgrace me, Natalia. Not again.”

She can’t say anything in defense of herself without expecting retaliation, so she chooses to say nothing. It’s her best weapon.

“I have some information for you.”

Natalia snorts. What kind of information does her father think will sway her from rejecting another staging?

“Your words have appeared at a very specific time, Natalia. With the handwriting of a merchant. It happens that I have come into contact with a merchant, one Van der Lee, who keeps the taxation records and therefore the writing of every merchant—even that of the unregistered.”

Toris hasn’t registered. Otherwise her father would be revealing this information instead, that he has found her match. Toris is safe. So far. Despite herself, Natalia’s eyes flicker back to her father’s regal form.

“Your lack of cooperation is trying, Natalia. You will stage with Master Bondevik, or I will take up Van der Lee’s offer to scour the records for the handwriting that matches that of your arm.”

“And why have you not done it yet?” snaps Natalia.

“Because, dear child, you do not wish me to know the identity of your soulmate. For the honor of my precious daughter, I will not be able to help myself the minute I know. I will end him.”

Her father will not stoop to murder. He will start with bankruptcy. Then eviction. Then even years later, depending on what Toris tries to do, what Natalia decides to do, her father will have the ultimate weapon in store.

Toris is doing well; the words tell her so. She can keep it that way, or she can risk his wellbeing for—what? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what she’s protesting for. Her freedom, possibly. At least the right to resist marriage. If she doesn’t catch herself on the train of thought, she will admit that sometimes Toris plays a role. Her fights have always made sense to her, but now, for once, she risks someone getting hurt.

Natalia says nothing for the rest of the journey, but the silence is weighted in a way that indicates Lord Braginski’s offer has been heard and accepted. When they arrive, the four Braginskis are shown into the parlor with minimal small talk on the part of Lord Bondevik.

All eyes fall on her and the intended. Lukas Bondevik. She has been glaring at him subconsciously since she entered, but now she focuses and refines the glare until she half expects him to fall to the floor punctured with holes where her eyes bore in.

Lukas Bondevik’s face is stony and set, too sharp and pale. He mirrors Natalia too much, but where she seethes, he absorbs, taking in all emotion and giving nothing in return. He eyes her too, and at the most inopportune of moments, Natalia wishes his eyes were green.

Largely, she thinks, she is protesting for the right to choose her soulmate herself.

Her father steps up from behind her and places his thumb and fingers in a clenching grip on the back of her neck. The touch is light enough not to bruise, but strong enough to remind her that the circumstances she wishes for cannot be.

She grits out the first sentence of the staging, the first time she has ever done so. “I don’t suppose you’re Lukas?”

Her father’s fingers remain in place, but she senses his satisfaction. She wants to look away, close her ears to words that she’s already heard, words that are about to belong to the wrong man.

“I’m sorry.”

Natalia blinks. For a moment, she looks at Lukas Bondevik and sees a different sort of vulnerability from hers—one of uncertainty, willingness to risk. He hasn’t met his soulmate yet. But he’s decided that it’s not going to be her.

“I can’t,” he continues, looking between his father and Natalia in part supplication and part certainty. “I just—”

“You cannot.” Natalia finishes his thought. _Shares_ his thought.

“I cannot.”

Natalia hears very little of what happens after. Her father and his say something about traitors, and the next thing she knows they are in clean, cold guest chambers, due to rest while Lord Bondevik prepares horses for them to go home and recover from the shame cast on his family.

Natalia is not a gambler, not when it comes to what she wants. She knows she’s not going to be so lucky twice.

“Mother,” Natalia says once she and her mother are alone in the guest bedchamber.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I think I would like to visit Sister.”

“Well, dear, you know her invitation is always open.”

* * *

Sister’s house is smaller and less elaborate, but the rooms are warm and the garden is larger than at home. Natalia shares the manor with Sister, her husband Lord Matthew Williams, and her husband’s bastard brother, Alfred, whom Lord Williams has graciously taken in as an apprentice accountant.

Natalia decides immediately that she doesn’t like Alfred, which is a shame because Alfred decides right away that he likes Natalia. He takes to showing her around the home, chuckling to himself whenever Natalia manages to slip away and into the garden or the kitchen. He seems to talk with Sister a lot, since Lord Williams is busy fairly often and Sister has always needed someone to talk to, so Alfred sometimes looks at Natalia in a knowing way that Natalia doesn’t like.

“You sure like knives, huh?” says Alfred when he sees her slip two from the kitchen to find a new tree to practice on.

“And you like making my business yours,” Natalia snaps.

“Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Gotta make you feel welcome, you know?”

“Is this your house?” asks Natalia.

“Mattie and me share it.”

“You do not,” Natalia retorts, “since you do not have the title. So you are below me, and I do not have to listen to you.”

“Jeez, what has you all worked up?” says Alfred.

Boredom, mostly, and desperation. Natalia has stayed for two months now and is trying to come up with an excuse to never return to the Braginski manor. She thinks best when she’s throwing something. Something sharp, that is, which makes a satisfying _thwack_ on wood.

“Tell ya what,” says Alfred, approaching her and gently gesturing to one of the blades. “Let me spare a bird or two from those knives of yours like the hero I am, and we’ll go downtown. There’s a ton I bet you haven’t seen there!”

“I would not hit a bird,” says Natalia, and she rolls her eyes at the thought of Alfred as a self-proclaimed hero. But after a moment of reflection, she sets the knives back on the cutting board.

Alfred fills the carriage ride with chatter, which Natalia tunes out as she stares out the window. Outside of her family’s country manor and those of the other nobles, she has seen very little of the city or its surrounding areas. There is a harbor where the merchants live and work, and commoners in the regions surrounding it, and she doesn’t know what her father does to merit taxes from these people, but from the shabbiness of the streets, she thinks that perhaps the nobles ought to put the money to the bumpy roads rather than the family accounts.

A flash of blond catches her attention, and she sits up.

“So then I told Mattie, ‘There’s no way you’re going to—’ Hey, what are you looking at?” Alfred catches on and tries to look out the window too.

In the glass window of one of the shops, Natalia sees Toris’s loud blond friend. The same one who was trying to start a bakery. Natalia cranes her neck around to watch the shop disappear into the din of the city. For the illiterate, a wooden sign hangs out into the street in the shape of a small bird taking flight.

Natalia sits back and slumps in her seat.

“What, did you want to go there?” Alfred asks. “Starling Bakery—it’s really good, actually.” He grins and gives her a thumbs-up. “The guys there are really cool, too. Especially the baker. Kind of shy, but he makes the _best_ —okay, so I don’t remember what it’s called, but it’s like this honey-layered wafer thing, except it’s thicker than a wafer—”

Lost in his attempts to describe the variety of pastries at the shop, Alfred fails to offer to turn back. Natalia doesn’t want to reveal her own investment just yet, so she settles for remembering some nearby street names and landmarks.

* * *

 

She returns in a dark blue cloak, alone. She told Sister she was going for a walk in the nearby woods, but circled back and took one of the horses as the caretakers cleaned the stalls. From the way the stable boy, her sole witness, nodded at her as she left, she wonders if her behavior wasn’t unexpected.

It’s sunset, so the bakery is probably due to close as families finish buying bread for dinner. Natalia stands outside for a good ten minutes, stroking the mane of the horse and staring at the form of the building. Of course she’s not right in front of it, but she can see the remaining pastries from the across the street if she tries. Today’s specialty appears to be brownies.

Finally, the blond friend comes to close the shop. Just as his key enters the lock, Natalia is at the other side of the door, pounding on it.

The blond jostles the key in the lock a little, out of shock. He opens the door and squints at her.

“Like, do I know you?”

“Probably not. I need to speak to Toris.”

“No, I totally do! You were in the Braginski manor. I saw you by the stables sometimes. Like, why were you avoiding the ponies? They’re so adorable.”

“ _Now._ ”

The blond realizes something from her commanding tone. Probably her identity. He looks at her with new wariness. “Alright, but…just calm down, okay?” He lets her in and locks the door behind her, muttering to himself.

Natalia doesn’t like his tone, but chooses to ignore it in favor of looking around. In daylight the place would be well-lit, a pleasant place for families to come and order. There is very little of Toris present except in the food itself and the oven behind the counter. A flight of stairs leads to what she presumes is a small living space.

“TORIS,” the blond hollers towards a back room that Natalia didn’t notice. “SOMEONE HERE FOR YOU.”

“Send them back,” comes the quieter response.

Natalia makes to enter. She’s stopped with a pull on her dress sleeve. The blond isn’t going to dare to touch her body, but he looks like he was planning to reach for her wrist. She turns.

“Look,” says the blond. “I wouldn’t even have let you in here if I knew Toris wouldn’t find out some way or another and be upset about it. So just—don’t break him. You came so close last time. And if you do,” he says with a glare that Natalia didn’t think was possible, “nobility or not, I’ll kick you out of here faster than you can say his name.”

Natalia wants badly to object, to retort that he’s lesser. But a few factors make her stop. First, since Alfred has inadvertently shown her how to find Toris, she’s trying to be more cordial towards those below her station. Second, she knows she would say the same to Sister’s or Brother’s soulmate. And thirdly, and perhaps more importantly, she realizes she doesn’t know how he fared emotionally after he left, and she needs this information. She settles for a nod, and the blond nods back and starts the trek up the stairs.

Natalia lets herself behind the counter and into a room that looks at first to be only supplies. Crates of flour and sugar and flavorings and spices cover the walls, and almost directly to the back are three smaller empty crates, two stacked and one beside them as a stool.

Toris is hunched over the makeshift desk, and she realizes he’s writing. She takes a moment to examine the man she hasn’t seen in nearly a year. His shoulders are broader, and his skin has lost some of the pallor he suffered in the Braginski manor. His hair is a little longer, and his jaw is set in a way that she isn’t familiar with.

He finishes what he’s writing and looks up, and she sees—for that brief moment before shock overcomes him—that despite growing older and stronger, Toris hasn’t changed. He still looks at others with kindness.

“Nata—Miss—tress—” Toris gives up on names. He stares at her, no doubt taking her in as well. Thank goodness she chose a cloak.

When it appears that words fail him, Natalia takes the lead. “I did not know your bakery was so close to the manor.”

“No—no closer than anything else in the city, miss,” he says, and then flinches, trying to take back the automatic title and then reminding himself to be polite. “You only told me to go, not to keep my distance.”

“I didn’t want you to keep your distance.”

“It sounded like it. Miss.”

“I was angry. You lied to me.”

Toris’s jaw unslackens and sets in that unfamiliar way. It’s not unkind, and it makes him look more certain. “There’s not a thing I said to you that wasn’t true.”

Natalia examines him. “I believe you.”

Toris’s shoulders lower.

“What did you want, then? From me?” Natalia asks. She’s tired of standing, she’s been standing for a good hour waiting for courage to find her, but she isn’t about to ask for his seat. This isn’t the kitchen. She leans against one of the crates and folds her arms while Toris stands up to address her properly.

“I didn’t know myself,” says Toris a little sheepishly. “I felt strange enough that I convinced you to attend your reading lessons, and then I had to ruin your plans to mark your brother. That was as far as my mind let me go, feeling like I wasn’t going to be good enough for you.”

“Then the pastries? The lunches?”

“My job—” Toris quiets himself when Natalia glares at him. They both know his job didn’t require that level of devotion. “…Is it enough to have wanted you to be happy?”

“Without expecting anything in return.”

“Like I said, I had no plans.” Toris flushes a little. “Dreams, but not plans.”

“And dreams of what? Toris, we—” Natalia pauses, realizing she’s addressed him by his name for the first time in a long while. Toris cocks his head.

“ _Toris_ ,” she says more firmly, “my family has expectations. So do our stations.”

“The fact that you’re here in my bakery without a chaperone doesn’t seem like you’re obeying your family’s wishes,” Toris points out.

Natalia catches those words, _my bakery._ “You seemed so against this place,” she says, “when your blond friend mentioned it.”

Toris looks around at the storage room. He can’t delude either of them into thinking it’s glamorous. “I…couldn’t stop thinking about things you said when you would talk. About being strong.” Toris waves around helplessly at all the things which are likely under his name. “I’m not…strong, but if I could at least be independent, then maybe…”

Natalia’s expression twitches. She didn’t think he was listening that deeply. She didn’t think he’d taken her words so deeply to heart. “You wanted to be strong for me.”

Toris examines her. Sighs. Nods.

Natalia steps forward and folds her arms.

“Be strong _with_ me.”

Toris is struck speechless. “But—all those talks, I thought—”

“I was…wrong. I am only so strong. And you too,” she says, and tries to blow off his nervous episode with a quick transition, though the memory lingers between them. “But maybe—and I only say maybe—we can be stronger if we’re strong at the same time.”

Natalia expects him to be happy about this. She expects smiles and laughter. Instead she gets a pause, and a sigh, and a shake of the head.

“Natalia, that’s not going to be enough.”

“What?”

“If this world were different—absolutely. I would follow you and what you wanted, without question. But you’re a Braginski, and I’m—not. I never will be. You know that.”

Natalia has known these same facts for longer than she has known Toris. But to have Toris be the realist, to make herself the dreamer—it hurts her more than she expects. She stands there breathlessly, letting rejection settle over her. Her arms clench tighter around herself.

She starts to cry.

Before she can even register that there are tears on her cheeks, she is pulled from the wall of crates and pressed against a firm chest. She can feel her forehead on Toris’s cheek, feel his heartbeat even with her ear against his shoulder, smell flour and vanilla and wildflowers, and it’s at that moment that something in her chest fills up and makes her lean her face into Toris’s shoulder and silently let out a few more tears.

“What am I supposed to do?” she whispers.

Toris breathes a shuddering sigh. He seems as unsettled as her by this turn in her emotions. He hasn’t seen her in nearly a year. Neither of them realize that in such a short time, she has slipped into her own personal mess.

“I…” Toris starts. “I do have one idea.”

Natalia stills.

“It’s crazy,” he says, “really crazy. And we’ll need some help, and it will take some time, and your family may disown you entirely.”

Her, disowned? Natalia can never imagine Brother or Sister abandoning her. And Mother and Father can do without a second daughter—they already only treat her as a spare source of assurance of their title. What is disowned to her?

Against his chest, she nods, and stares at his accounting books. At the top of one page is a sketch of the wooden sign outside—a starling taking flight.

* * *

Thank god the baby takes more after her mother than her father.

Toris takes steady steps beside Natalia, ready to guide her if need be but ultimately letting her walk alone. She’s not used to holding this bundle in her arms, but not about to show it.

“And you aren’t nervous?” she asks warily, shifting the cloth carefully. The baby stirs, but doesn’t wake.

She has in mind the anxious Toris whose panicked heartbeat drowned out all rational thought when he realized he would have to leave her. Instead, she’s treated to a Toris with a gentle, if slightly sheepish smile.

“A little,” he confesses, “but to be honest, I’m curious about how they will react.”

“Father will not be happy. You haven’t seen him, even at meals. You don’t know.”

“I have an idea.”

“I should have left you at home.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Looking up from the careful steps she’s been making, she risks a look at Toris. This is the man who waited with her for months, talking with her—really talking, properly responding to her rants instead of keeping up propriety—to keep her mind off of her boredom and impatience. The timing has to be just right, he said, and he made arrangements for everything to be carried out without a problem. This is the only man she has ever introduced to any of her siblings, though it hardly counts as an introduction since Sister knows him from the kitchen at home. Still, at the Williams manor he is welcome, and at Starling Bakery, so is she.

Natalia doesn’t respond, but she thinks Toris knows the answer.

They reach the front door by foot, something Natalia has never done before. Toris raps on the door, says a few words of greeting to Eduard the butler, and gestures to the bundle Natalia is carrying. The look of pure shock on Eduard’s face lightens Natalia’s mood.

Eduard escorts them in and instructs them to wait, and only a few minutes later they are called into the Braginski family parlor. Natalia is impressed that her father has assembled her mother and brother so quickly. All three of them stare at Natalia, Toris, and their cargo with varying degrees of owlishness.

“So,” her father begins with ice in his tone, “this was the reason you requested to visit Yekaterina.”

“It is,” says Natalia, and shifts the weight in her arms. Babies are heavy. At least this one isn’t loud.

“A year of postponed returns by request of your sister,” her father continues. “I will have words with her husband. She should not disobey him, or me.”

“Lord Matthew Williams and his wife were gracious,” says Toris in such a firm voice that Natalia turns to stare at him. “They supported us through every moment. We are forever grateful to them.”

Lord Braginski’s eyes slowly turn to take in Toris from his scuffed but new shoes to his hair tied up in the back. He sneers. “And you are the father of _this?_ ” He thrusts a hand at the baby in Natalia’s arms, who has begun to whine a little in her sleep.

Toris folds his hands behind his back and stands close enough to Natalia that their upper arms press together. She can feel his tensing muscles. “I am. I’m Natalia’s soulmate.”

Lord Braginski looks him over once more. A memory sparks. He turns to Natalia. “The kitchen boy?”

Natalia nods, but her attention is drawn to the baby who is stirring. She will be wanting her mother soon. Good. Natalia doesn’t want to look at her father any more than she has to. Willing or not, she is still having trouble imagining herself no longer a Braginski.

Lord Braginski is slowly recovering from shock and transitioning into rage. “And you expect that you will come to my manor with this— _spawn_ —and escape punishment?”

Toris said he would take care of this part, the part where Lord Braginski threatens him. But Toris isn’t acting. Natalia tries to look at him, but all she can see is the same stony gaze that Lord Braginski has trained on them. She didn’t think he could do that. He is constantly surprising her.

“And Father, what is so bad about this?”

Every eye in the room turns to Brother. From the news she receives from Sister, Natalia knows that he is still not married. He sits there smiling serenely, his eyes trained on the baby in Natalia’s arms.

“Even an illegitimate heir is better than none,” says Brother. “And Sister has at least done us the service of staying at Katyusha’s manor. Nobody knows. We can tell the others what they expect to hear.”

“And gloss over the detail of a kitchen boy for a soulmate?” Lord Braginski’s face is turning red.

“And the lack of a wedding,” Lady Braginski adds.

Brother’s smile widens. “I remember Father once saying that Older Sister’s wedding would be the most followed. It was, was it not? And then mine. What is Baby Sister’s wedding? Very small. Almost nothing.”

“And _what_ are you saying, boy?” demands Lord Braginski, despite that Brother is twenty-one now and hardly a child.

“I am saying,” says Brother with a smile at Natalia, “if Baby Sister stays with kitchen boy, then she will not marry another noble who will ask questions. When instead we could have nice Baby Sister, happy Baby Sister taking care of a baby and being away from us.”

The room is still. Only Ivan is smiling, and the baby is beginning to squeal now. Natalia doesn’t know what to do. She tries bouncing, tries to look like a good mother in front of her own, but the baby is perhaps too smart because she can sense the tension and doesn’t like it. The baby starts to cry.

“Get these _headaches_ out of my parlor,” Lord Braginski finally barks to no one in particular. “And Natalia, do not dream of returning. I will be speaking with your sister very soon.”

Natalia bows her head and follows Toris out. They are about to step out to the front door, when footsteps catch up with them in the hallway.

“May I hold the baby?” Brother asks.

Wordlessly, Natalia hands over the baby to his waiting arms. The baby stops crying almost instantly. Natalia glares at her.

Brother bounces the baby in his arms a few times, examining first her and then Natalia and Toris. “Do I have a niece, or a nephew?”

“A niece,” Toris answers.

“And what is my niece’s name?”

“Alexandra—”

“Kotryna—”

Natalia and Toris stare at each other. Natalia was using her given name; Toris a different one, probably the one he would have chosen.

Brother chuckles. “It is alright,” he says. “She has a dimple. Now, Sister is beautiful, but Sister has no dimple. Nor Toris.”

Natalia is a little impressed her brother has figured it out.

“Maybe try for a son next time, _da?_ ” Brother says, and cradles the baby with one arm while he claps Toris on the back. Toris winces a little, but otherwise smiles brightly.

“Maybe one day,” he says, “if Natalia—”

“Maybe one day,” Natalia punctuates.

“I hope for soon,” says Brother. “Sister, you haven’t heard, but I think maybe it will be you to provide the heir.”

Natalia raises an eyebrow. Brother hands the baby to Toris—she lies perfectly content in his arms, the traitor—and unrolls his sleeve to show his sister what can be nothing but newly-formed words.

_It’s okay—a hero can fix anything!_

“It’s maybe time I became a hero too,” says Brother. “But it appears my soulmate is not a heroine.”

Natalia can’t believe it. She’ll have to have Brother over to Sister’s for a visit soon; “the hero” and she will be even, each having found the other’s soulmate. After a moment, she says, “And what about Sister?”

“Oh, I think Brother-in-Law is in a similar situation to me. And Older Sister knows. She is very smart that way.”

Natalia smiles very slightly. “Brother is very smart too.”

Brother smiles back.

Having made peace with her sibling, Natalia and Toris take their leave. The baby is probably growing hungry, as not even Toris’s cooing can calm her. Natalia is relieved when they reach Starling Bakery, but loses that relief when they are immediately accosted by a blond, a brunette, and the brunette’s husband.

“So it went well?” Feliks begs. “Oh god, please tell me it went well.”

“They’re fine, Feliks,” says Elizabeta. “See, I told you Toris had this,” she says with a smile to him and—surprisingly—Natalia.

“ _Ja, ja,_ everything’s fine after all—just give me back my kid.” And Gilbert promptly snatches his daughter out of Toris’s arms and proceeds to rock her. Baby Alexandra calms momentarily, but Gilbert soon has to hand her off to Elizabeta so she can be fed. Natalia looks at the trio, at Elizabeta’s green eyes and brown hair and their contrast from Gilbert’s near-albino qualities. Yes, it’s a good thing that baby Alexandra takes after her mother, or they would have had to search for another baby resembling Toris. Or herself.

“We couldn’t have pulled it off without you,” says Toris to Elizabeta and Gilbert. “Seriously, I can’t thank you enough for trusting us.”

“Toris, after how you took me in when I was fired—well, I won’t be giving you my firstborn, but I can at least rent her,” Elizabeta says with a laugh.

“She was fine, right?” Gilbert asks. “Nobody pulling any knives on her?”

“He was totally the more worried of the two,” scoffs Feliks. “I had to listen to him for hours just _whining_.”

“And when _you_ finally find your soulmate and have a kid with her, you’ll see what I mean.” Gilbert crosses his arms and glares at Feliks.

Natalia watches the scene unfold. It’s familiar, after months of planning and waiting.

This is her home now.

And from the way Toris catches her eye and smiles as the others make noise around them, she finds herself ready to face whatever else fate is trying to give her. 

* * *

 

The first year—the first _real_ year—is the hardest. All of their preparations over the months—waiting for Natalia to have stayed away nine months, to properly fake the pregnancy—focused only on the Braginski confrontation and its immediate consequences. Natalia informed Toris early on of her father’s threats, and by an astounding coincidence, Toris knew the merchant. A meeting with Lars Van der Lee made it evident that Lars’s father, in protest of his noble son’s illegal side business, was the one offering merchant records to desperate nobles. A deal with the Williams family made Lars quite willing to liberate the records from his father’s grasp.

At first Natalia found it suspicious that a businessman like Lars would honor such a charity case. Toris had enough money to sustain himself, but certainly not to bribe, and there was no bribe that Lord Williams could make that her father couldn’t outdo.

During one discussion with Lars and Toris, however, Natalia noted that one of Lars’s tied sleeves had loosened. As he reached for his tea, Natalia spied black script—a brief “-ords.” in cursive, the rest blocked off by fabric. A moment later, when Toris produced a letter from Lord Williams stating his support for his wife’s sister and her soulmate, Natalia examined a small segment of the letter and found the same looping “-ords” ending the word “records”.

Natalia was at first willing to brush off the coincidence—after all, cursive could only vary so much, even with different handwriting—but then Lars briefly glanced to his own arm and then to the paper, as if checking for forgery.

A few nights later Natalia and Sister were dining together, and as they ate, a knock resounded at the door. Astoundingly, Sister appeared neither surprised nor inclined to receive whomever was calling. When the visitor was quietly shown to Matthew’s office and passed the dining room, Natalia caught a glimpse of a tall man with blond hair and a scarf, and she understood what leverage Lord Matthew Williams had over Lars Van der Lee.

Toris and Natalia went to the Braginski manor knowing that Lord Braginski had no bargaining power. True to whatever mysterious deal he had made with his former(?) soulmate, Lars stole back the records that would identify Toris and hundreds of other business owners; Lord Braginski could not find him with the same tools. Lord Williams also promised assistance in case Lord Braginski decided to launch a new search for his daughter, but Ivan—Brother—must be acting as a buffer between his sister and father, because for months after the Braginski confrontation and Natalia’s disownment, no threats to Starling Bakery arose.

As they let their guard down from external threats—as they finally understand that Natalia was well and truly cut off—Toris and Natalia turn to other matters. First is the matter of Feliks. For the months since Toris and Natalia reunited, Toris set aside a small part of his earnings to buying a separate living space, so as to no longer share with Feliks. Feliks, no matter how blasé he tries to be, suffers some shock being separated from his best friend, and his departure is further delayed by the fact that Toris didn’t save enough money by the time Natalia was disowned. Natalia has to stay with Sister for another month before Toris can afford a home and surrender the flat above the bakery to Feliks.

Living together, just Natalia and Toris, brings on a new set of challenges. Toris has to wake long before the sun rose to travel to the bakery, a twenty-minute walk where he claims to enjoy the stars. Natalia, however, wakes every time he leaves—regardless that they sleep in different rooms, that he makes as little noise as possible—and fails to sleep for a good half hour every time, wondering why Toris insisted he buy a home for them straddling the border between the city and the woods. It’s a kind gesture, she knows, stemming from what he knows of her pastimes. But it’s expensive, and given their new financial situation—a situation she never encountered before, where the only cleaning and shopping that takes place is by her doing—she knows Toris is suffering to keep a roof over their heads, let alone the leaking roof of a rundown cottage.

The woods were an escape for her, when she was a noble. Not so anymore. What good is escape when she comes home to Toris, arriving in the early afternoon to share lunch with her and leaving the sales to Feliks? What good is escape when Elizabeta comes calling on random days, carrying baby Alexandra on her hip and showing her how to take care of their small house and asking to be read one of the books Natalia kept from her days of nobility? What good is escape when Feliks raps on the door and, in a gesture of goodwill, insists on repairing the holes that had formed in her simple gowns?

Toris must know she’s lonely. Or perhaps his friends really are so kind as to visit. Either way, she needs to make Toris know that while she enjoys the others’ company more than she expected she would, it was him she gave up her title and family for.

So she starts accompanying him to work.

Toris almost walks past her in the dark one morning, until he brushes her as she stands by the door. “Natalia?” he asks.

“I’m coming.”

“No, you should sleep—”

“I wake every time you leave, anyway.”

Natalia can barely see his smile in the waning moonlight, but she thinks it’s there.

They walk together under the constellations, and she sits on the counter of the bakery as Toris begins kneading dough. It’s calm, quiet, in the yellow light of the store’s few lamps. Natalia leans on the wall and can feel herself nodding off a few times, until Toris asks her what she and Elizabeta spoke about the other day.

As always—as she’s done even before she realized she was doing it—she talks to him. She recounts the insignificant milestones of Alexandra’s growth, and how Elizabeta told her Gilbert had tried to cook, which turned into a discussion of their courtship, and by the time Natalia has to explain Elizabeta’s departure, Toris has finished the first loaves of bread. He and Natalia split the smallest loaf in half for breakfast, and watch the sun rise through the window.

“This is better for you than my family’s kitchen,” Natalia says.

Toris looks at her.

“The only window was in the back door. And the walls were gray, and it didn’t smell of bread as often because every food was made there. It was too busy and too dark.”

“Wouldn’t that mean the bakery is better for you, then? Not for me.”

“But you spent more time there than me.”

“I spent more time _with_ you,” says Toris. Natalia looks to him, leaning with his elbows on the counter and chewing on the soft part of his half of the loaf, and smiling slightly as he looked out the window. He catches her staring, and widens his smile for her.

“I’m glad you came today,” he says.

After that, she comes more often. She has to learn to fight her fatigue, but it’s no more of an adjustment than unlearning her relationship with commoners or becoming responsible for a small cottage. And the rewards are more immediate. She, Toris, and Feliks keep each other company, and while Natalia tends not to speak to the customers for uncertainty of what to say, they speak kindly to her when they catch her eye.

One day Feliks introduces her to a regular as Toris’s wife. Toris and Natalia glance at each other. They haven’t married yet.

Once the customer is gone, Toris takes Natalia by the hand. She’s getting used to this sort of contact—they practice enough on their walks to the bakery every morning, and she’s already learned that squeezing as hard as she can is perhaps not the best strategy—but the way in which he holds it this time feels like a question, not a guide.

“What?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

“We should…” He blushes, and his other hand goes to the back of his neck. “We could do that. Very quickly.”

“What—marry?”

“Commoners only require the paperwork. No large ceremonies.”

“Oh my god, Toris,” Feliks pipes up as he arranges the display of cookies. “You’re not even going to let me pick out a wedding dress for your wife?”

“I—I would be a bride.” Natalia turns to Feliks. “Not a wife.”

Feliks gives her an impressive deadpan look. He then smirks. “Yeah, you two live together, eat all your meals together, come to work together—you totally don’t sound already married.”

Natalia looks at Toris.

“The arrangement seemed practical enough at the time,” Toris says, still a little red, “but we might as well make it official. For tax purposes.”

“Tax purposes.”

“Married couples file their taxes together,” Feliks says. “And they get discounts. Toris didn’t want to tell you because he thought you’d feel pressured.”

“Are you always going to speak for Toris?” Natalia asks. Her look to Feliks is sharp, but Feliks understands the lack of malice behind it. He grins and holds his hands up in mock surrender.

Natalia turns to Toris. He studies her cautiously, hopefully, as if he still can’t believe she’s following him to work every day. She can’t believe it either. But she doesn’t want to stop.

“A few days,” she says, “so I can tell Brother and Sister.”

Shortly after their wedding—a small affair at their cottage, fervently celebrated by Toris’s friends and Natalia’s family—Natalia begins work with a florist down the street, a regular customer who enjoys chatting with Feliks and warms up to Natalia. With their income supplemented, Toris and Natalia begin fixing up their cottage, and buy a large bed to share.

* * *

“Don’t move.”

Toris holds still at the doorway. Natalia holds her finger in the air threateningly, then turns her back and disappears into the second bedroom.

Toris wonders what he needs to see this time. Normally he has to ask how things are going at home, wait for the status update. She was increasingly moody for a while, and sometimes cried. He still felt no good at comforting her, but, just as with the first time she’d cried in his presence, all those years ago in the back of the bakery, holding her seemed to at least quiet her.

These days, things are better. This he sees when Natalia emerges from the second bedroom slowly, leaning down to hold the hands of their toddler son.

“Go on, Nikolai,” she prompts.

Nikolai smiles gummily upon seeing his father at the doorway. He has Toris’s brown hair and Natalia’s blue eyes (gentler, not as piercing, but still a Braginski trait), but his teeth have barely started growing in. He takes first one step, then another, and manages five before he falls.

“Ah!” Natalia says sharply when Toris makes to move from the doorway. Toris, understanding the instruction, stays still.

With Natalia gently lifting him up until he’s properly supported again, Nikolai takes the remaining seven steps to his father’s waiting embrace. Toris lifts him up and kisses him on the cheek, and kisses Natalia for good measure.

“He’s been practicing all morning,” says Natalia, quietly pleased.

“He’s going to terrorize the customers, isn’t he?” says Toris.

“Whose? He’ll come to work with me, you know. He’d enjoy flowers more than the bakery floor, and I _refuse_ to let his first word be ‘Feliks’.”

“If you’re not careful, it might be ‘Uncle Ivan.’”

“Better that,” says Natalia. “He’ll be saying it often enough in the future.”

The future of Nikolai as a Braginski remains to be seen. Ivan is now Lord Braginski and has not married, and—judging by the number of times he visits the Williams manor—may very well never. Yekaterina and Matthew plead infertility, a fact which both Toris and Natalia highly doubt but aren’t about to question. So far, Ivan’s prediction has come true: Natalia is the only of the three siblings to have provided an heir.

The thought makes Toris anxious. He fears the day Nikolai may be taken from them, no matter how gently. On the days where Natalia doesn’t suffer from pregnancy-related mood swings or the desire to go back to work, it’s Toris’s turn to be afraid and to need comfort.

Nikolai squirms a little in Toris’s arms, pushing up Toris’s sleeve to reveal thin black penmanship. When Natalia isn’t there to comfort him, the words are what keep him calm enough, what he looks at until he can find Natalia and have her set him down and make him drink water and tell him things he already knows. The words tell him that despite his doubts and his anxiety and his fears, despite everything, she always finds him and reminds him that she said yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The NedCan just happened, I swear. I'm more of a PruCan person myself.


	3. Epilogue: Nikolai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote all but the very last scene of this update in September, thinking it would be a good way to advertise my continuation of this AU (and, in some ways, to make up for what happens in said continuation). But the truth is that I've fallen in love with Lietbel, and I just wanted to see more of Toris and Natalia being together. So now, on the one-year anniversary of this story's publication, I present to you a 7,000 word epilogue.
> 
> (To those of you waiting on Love Is Strong Enough: I am so sorry and I hope I can catch up on that over break.)
> 
> (To those of you who commented saying you don't read Lietbel but will read this story: I love you so, so much.)

The baby mewls in Toris’s arms. Toris lifts him, but his shaking arms won’t let him bounce the baby any more than the trembling already allows.

He looks at Natalia, lying pale on the bed before him. Her jaw is set in the same determined manner it usually is, and that’s the only thing keeping Toris together right now. He’s tempted, so tempted, to let himself sink into panic. A small part of him hopes that Natalia will wake up and talk him out of it, just as she always does. But he can’t let himself think that way. For the moment, his strength is all he can rely on.

He can go out and find Feliks, he knows. Feliks is napping outside the bedroom on the floor, there to retrieve food and hold the baby while Toris fitfully sleeps. Feliks can quell the bubble of breathlessness rising in Toris’s chest almost as well as Natalia can, but this time the bubble is fueled with the fact that right now _Natalia can’t_.

Right now Toris keeps his heart steady by holding his son against his chest and letting him listen to the beat.

Natalia spent the pregnancy worse than Toris had anticipated. Granted, neither of them had actually anticipated a pregnancy, but for her determination and her general fitness, Natalia seemed like she would be fine. But as the months past and her belly swelled, she became dizzy, more uncomfortable than pregnancy generally made happen by itself.

And now that the birth is past, Natalia hasn’t woken up. The midwife had to act quickly to stop the gush of blood that followed his son— _his son_ , Toris has a son now—and had to go home after Natalia’s first day of rest. Today is the third day where Natalia hasn’t woken up.

In all this time, the baby has kept strong. He’s small, smaller than Toris is comfortable with. But he has Natalia’s eyes, and Toris finds himself praying to any deity that will listen that these eyes won’t be the last trace he has of his soulmate, his wife.

Toris takes a shaky breath. He hears a second one, a sigh, and realizes belatedly that he didn’t make it.

His gaze flies to Natalia, who seems to be fighting against the air itself to open her eyes.

She looks up at him, and then at the bundle in his arms. She tries to lift herself up on one elbow, but winces almost immediately. She collapses back onto the pillows with as much fury as her fatigue can allow.

In a raspy voice, she says, “Give him to me.”

Toris doesn’t know how he does it, but within seconds he’s helped Natalia sit upright and cradle their son in her arms. The baby stirs from the movement but relaxes as quickly as he did in Toris’s arms.

“You’re alright,” says Toris. He’s looking at his son over Natalia’s shoulder, but it’s Natalia he kisses on her temple. “You’re alright.”

“Of course I am,” says Natalia. She brushes away the blanket around the baby’s face to better see him.

“You almost weren’t,” says Toris.

“I remember. We are not having another one.”

Toris nods immediately. A small part of him, quiet and shy, gives up an image of a girl in braids smiling widely up at him. The rest of him soaks up this scene—him, sitting on the side of the bed he shares with his wife, as they both cradle a son with Natalia’s eyes.

“He’s enough,” says Natalia. “The three of us, we will be enough.”

* * *

 

Nikolai first smiles at Toris. Natalia can’t exactly blame him, but she wonders why. She’s the one who stays with him day after day, feeding him at his every whine and carrying him everywhere he so much as looks at. She’s the first person he sees when he wakes and is more often than not the person who lays him down to sleep. Toris spends every hour of Nikolai’s first year either at the bakery or at home, and by Nikolai’s inane baby logic Toris deserves the first smile.

Natalia tries not to be bitter. Nikolai is still a very well-behaved baby, better than Alexandra who has grown hyperactive and begun to throw tantrums. She causes Elizabeta so much more grief than Nikolai ever causes Natalia. Even when Feliks or Gilbert comes over and speaks entirely too loudly, Nikolai accepts their coddling patiently. Even when he learns to walk and falls down all day before Toris comes home, Nikolai hardly cries.

But though Natalia isn’t bitter, she is frustrated.

One afternoon Toris comes home from the bakery and finds Natalia close to tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, stroking back a piece of her hair. Nikolai is playing on a blanket (a gift from Yekaterina) with a spoon (a utensil Natalia dropped) while neglecting a wooden teething ring (a gift from Alfred). Natalia is sitting on the sofa and watching him, making sure that if he decides to walk then he won’t fall too many times.

“I don’t know,” she says. But she does know. And she feels horrible for it. She wants her son to smile at her. She wants to know she hasn’t stayed home this past year, set aside her job and become a shut-in, just to be the second-favorite parent.

Toris senses she’s lying, but seems unable to guess the truth. “Would it help if I watched him for the afternoon?”

No. “Yes,” she says. She stands. “I will be in the woods.”

Toris nods, already sitting cross-legged on the ground beside Nikolai. Both of them watch her with wide eyes as she goes.

Natalia ventures into the woods behind her home. She’s slowly regained the grace that pregnancy took from her, and she steps carefully over roots and fallen branches. She’s glad she doesn’t have a knife at the moment, because she can’t even clearly identify whether she’s angry, let alone whether she’s motivated enough to attack anything. It was all so much simpler when she was still a noble. Her father wanted her to marry, so she would refuse. Brother wanted to focus on his studies, so she would push for his attention.

Toris was the exception. No matter what she did, he expected and demanded nothing of her. Now there is a second exception in her life: Nikolai, who allows himself to be carried and fed and entertained without any indication that he cares.

He’s a baby, Natalia reminds himself as she climbs up a hill. How could he know anything about gratitude?

Toris smiles at him more, Natalia reminds herself as she pulls herself up the branches of a tree. That’s something she could change.

What kind of mother am I? Natalia asks herself as she gazes out over the landscape. Her home is closer to this tree than she expected.

She trudges home when the sun grows low on the horizon. At this point Toris will probably have made dinner. Her two boys will probably waiting patiently for her. Maybe Toris will be reading to him.

When Natalia hears crying, she practically runs to the front door.

She throws it open to see a frazzled Toris holding Nikolai, bouncing him on his hip. Both of them look exhausted, and both see her at the same time.

“Mama!” cries Nikolai, reaching a pudgy hand for her.

Natalia stands stock still. She looks at Toris for confirmation.

Toris closes the distance between them and quickly hands over Nikolai. Natalia instinctively takes him to her hip. “He’s been saying it ever since you left,” Toris says as he runs a hand through his hair. Weakly, he smiles. “At least his first word isn’t ‘Feliks.’”

Natalia looks at her son, who is leaning his head on her collarbone. With one hand he grabs a lock of her hair, and with the other he steadies himself against her chest. He looks ready to fall asleep. “Mama,” he mutters again, his mouth half-pressed into her shoulder.

Natalia’s eyes feel glassy for an entirely new reason. She sweeps aside Nikolai’s fine hair and kisses his forehead. “That’s right. Mama.”

* * *

Natalia begins work shortly after Nikolai can walk without guidance. The system is easier to arrange than Toris expects, due largely to Elizabeta’s continued charity. On every weekday, after Toris has gone to the bakery, Natalia brings Nikolai to spend the day with Elizabeta and Alexandra; in the afternoon, Toris gets off work first and picks up Nikolai. The experience lets Nikolai and Alexandra develop a sort of sibling bond, and also gives Toris and Natalia the time for their respective jobs.

Given that Toris and Natalia both have Sundays off, the only trouble is Saturdays. Toris doesn’t have the heart to ask Elizabeta to watch over his son for six days of the week, especially when Gilbert has the full weekend off. (Partly Toris wants Gilbert to have his family to himself on those days, but he would be lying if he didn’t admit that he wants Nikolai’s contact with the loud, crude man to be at a minimum.)

Natalia wants to bring Nikolai to the florist with her, since it won’t disrupt his sleep schedule, but ultimately the deciding factor is Feliks. Feliks all but begs to have his “nephew” over to the bakery on Saturdays, and after a heated discussion with Natalia, Toris finds himself carrying his drowsy son to the bakery long before Saturday’s sunrise.

Feliks opens the door to the bakery before Toris can struggle to grab his keys. “We can put him in my bed,” says Feliks softly.

Toris raises an eyebrow. Feliks usually talks to Nikolai in a highly animated manner, but even he must catch on to Nikolai’s fatigue and disgruntlement. He leads Toris up the stairs of the bakery to the apartment which they once shared, and holds open a bedroom door so Toris can lay Nikolai down on the bed.

“Dada?” Nikolai mutters once he’s laid down again.

“Dada’s going to work,” says Toris. He kisses his son on the cheek. “You sleep a little longer, and I’ll check on you later.”

“Unca Feliks?” Nikolai turns to the door.

From the doorway, Feliks waggles his fingers. “I’ll feed you breakfast later, kiddo. Now go to sleep.”

Nikolai lies down again and closes his eyes. Behind Toris, Feliks snorts. “He’s as determined to sleep as Natalia, isn’t he?” he whispers as Toris leaves the bedroom door slightly ajar.

“Not everyone is an early riser, Feliks,” says Toris. Feliks rolls his eyes and leads the way back downstairs.

From the first months of their marriage up until her pregnancy, Toris had Natalia to keep him company as he kneaded dough and tended to the oven. As her stomach grew larger, however, she slept more and more. Towards the later months of the pregnancy, Toris took to staying with her until she woke. He would have made the same decision even knowing how Starling Bakery suffered for his absence, but he does feel grateful for Feliks’s understanding all the same.

He’s even more grateful now that Feliks has understood how essential it is that he learn Toris’s skills. Feliks chatters as always, but watches Toris carefully through every step of his baking procedure.

“So what exactly is your plan?” asks Toris when Feliks begins to concentrate on heating the oven. “For having Nikolai over?”

“You caught me,” says Feliks. He would put a hand over his wounded heart if both hands weren’t occupied tending the fire. “I’m going to fatten him up with bread and then throw him in the oven.”

“You might want to spice him first,” says Toris. “Also, isn’t this a bakery, not a butcher’s shop?”

“Sure it is,” says Feliks. “But it also gets pretty lonely around here. Maybe I won’t bake him after all.”

“I’m here,” says Toris.

“Sure, for as long as you have to be,” says Feliks. He turns to look at Toris with an abnormal frown. “You bake just enough bread for the dinner rush, and then you leave. And I’m totally not blaming you,” he says, holding up a hand as Toris tries to interject. “You have a family, I know. But you’re my family, Toris. You and now Nikolai.”

“And Natalia?”

“On the good days.”

Toris tries to scowl, but he can’t find it in himself. “I wish you’d said something,” he says instead.

“I did say something. I want Nikolai to come on Saturdays. I get you almost every day, but I haven’t seen him for more than an afternoon since he was born.”

“I don’t think you know how much of a handful he can be. All children are.”

“Then it looks to me like you have your hands full,” says Feliks with a grin. “I can help. I’m great with kids.”

Despite himself, Toris smiles. “Well, I did doubt you about you being great with the customers.”

“And look how wrong you were.”

Feliks delves into stories of his favorite customers—Toris knows them all, but he lets Feliks describe them all the same—long past the bakery’s opening at sunrise. Saturdays are usually quiet until the afternoon, when families gather bread for not only that evening’s dinner but also the next day’s, so Toris and Feliks let themselves rest and eat a slice of rye bread.

One of their first customers of the day is Michelle, a tan young woman with long waving hair that she keeps in two ponytails. She’s a maid for a merchant who travels often, leaving her to maintain the grounds and run errands for the rest of the small staff.

She smiles widely upon seeing Feliks and Toris. “Toris! You’re looking well-rested,” she says.

“Really? It must be a good morning,” says Toris. He smiles back. “What can we get for you today?”

Before Michelle can speak, a voice speaks from the stairway behind her. “Dada?”

Michelle turns around, and Toris and Feliks lean behind her to see Nikolai leaning down from the third step of the stairs. He looks wide awake, although his clothes are rumpled from how he must have crawled out of bed. Toris belatedly realizes that though he’d left the door ajar to check on Nikolai, it also served to let Nikolai out.

“I’m here,” he says, stepping around the counter to pick up Nikolai from the staircase. Their one-floor home means Nikolai is unfamiliar with stairs, and Toris can’t help but worry that he’ll fall.

“Oh!” Michelle coos. “Is this your son? You’ve never brought him here before!”

“His mother went back to work,” Toris explains. “Usually we have Elizabeta watch him, but today I had to bring him with me.” He looks down to Nikolai, who is leaning against Toris’s chest and staring at Michelle with wide eyes. Toris bounces him. “Say hello, Nikolai.”

“’Lo,” says Nikolai.

Michelle beams. “Well hello, Nikolai! You look just like your father!”

“With his mother’s eyes,” juts in Feliks. “Toris still can’t get over that.”

“They’re good eyes,” says Toris quietly.

“And they’re very handsome on him,” says Michelle. She holds out her arms. “May I?”

Before Toris can decide whether Nikolai will be comfortable with being held by someone so new, Nikolai holds out his arms. “I guess he’s decided,” says Toris with a small laugh. He hands Nikolai to Michelle, who supports him carefully. But Nikolai doesn’t stop reaching.

“Uh!” he says. Toris follows his gaze to see him reaching for a chocolate chip cookie, currently on display under the glass case.

Michelle realizes a second after Toris does and laughs. “I see where I stand. Can I have two?” she asks Feliks.

“Oh no, that’s not—” Toris tries to interrupt.

“I’ll pay,” says Michelle. “Anything for the sweetest little boy I’ve ever seen!”

“Isn’t he?” says Feliks almost gloatingly as he hands over two cookies. Michelle breaks off a piece of the first one and gives it to Nikolai and munches on the second cookie herself.

“See, Nikolai?” she says. “Cookie.”

Nikolai doesn’t repeat, too focused on slobbering over the morsel. He does, however, look at Michelle with wide eyes, and then offers her a toothy smile.

“Oh, he’s so sweet,” says Michelle to Toris. “Why don’t you bring him here every day?”

“At this rate?” says Toris, looking at his son in bemusement. “It’s because I’m worried he’ll run me out of stock.”

He can’t wait to tell Natalia that of all the pastries on display, Nikolai chose his mother’s favorite.

* * *

 

One Saturday when Nikolai is five years old, Feliks catches a cold. Toris is left to run the bakery and Natalia, not wanting Nikolai to catch anything, brings him to work with her.

Work with Nikolai is an unusual experience. Her job at the florist shop is usually to tend to the flowers and leave her associate, a pleasant but stoic woman named Lucille, to cater to customers. Nikolai’s presence, however, draws the attention of customers who would otherwise ignore her. Natalia suddenly feels lucky that she’s spent many Sundays with Nikolai in the woods, teaching him the names of grasses and flowers—he almost makes a good assistant.

Natalia is sorting through tulip bulbs and Nikolai is ripping the leaves off of a dead fern when Lucille says she’s stepping out for lunch. Natalia nods and watches her coworker leave. She wonders whether she should take Nikolai to the bakery once it’s their turn for lunch. Toris has already packed them a meal, but she knows Nikolai will always appreciate a chance to be fed pastries and be cooed over by the customers.

The door to the florist shop opens, and Natalia sighs. It’s time to interact with customers.

“Welcome, may I help—?”

Staring at her with wide, nearly frightened eyes is Raivis.

Natalia stares at her former servant—the one who tended the gardens, the one who all but cowered when she brushed by him to retreat into the woods. She knows that he’s now working for her brother, the new Lord Braginski now that her father has passed away and her mother has fallen ill. She knows all this from Ivan’s letters, from Yekaterina’s requests for her to visit. She thought she could remain distant. She thought she could ignore that obligation.

Looking at Raivis, she wonders if that’s still true.

“Miss—Mistress Braginski?” Raivis asks.

“No longer,” says Natalia. “You know this.” She tries to sound gentle, but she doesn’t know how to speak to someone she knows to be a servant. She’s barely figured out how to handle anyone who isn’t a friend of Toris.

“Surely your brother hasn’t forbidden you from returning,” says Raivis. The thought escapes him without his permission and he immediately backs away, as if Natalia will lash out at him.

Natalia looks at the tulip bulbs in her hands. She doesn’t feel dangerous. Hasn’t felt so in a long time. “He welcomes me. I just don’t want to go.”

The fact that Natalia is speaking with simpler language, the language of the commoners, makes Raivis lower his shoulders. “You haven't been disowned, then?” He sounds confused.

“I have. By my father. Who is dead, is he not?”

Raivis nods.

“My brother could bring me back if he wishes. But I don’t want him to.” Natalia nods. It does nothing to dissuade the feeling of guilt. Right now her mother is lying in bed, likely being tended by Eduard or even Alfred—Alfred who has watched over his own father’s dying days, Alfred who can’t explain to his mother-in-law who he actually is. Then again, maybe he has. With Lord Braginski passed, what do he and Ivan have to lose?

“But your mother, miss…”

“Is no longer my concern. She made her choice when she supported Father in disowning me.”

“She asks for you.”

Natalia stops speaking.

“I hear so,” says Raivis. He looks apologetic. “She wants to see you again. You and her grandchild.”

Natalia sets down the tulip bulbs. “Why—why have Brother and Sister not told me?”

“I don’t know,” says Raivis. “Perhaps your refusing to come to your father’s funeral—”

“He deserved it,” says Natalia. She wants to keep her bitterness. She wants to remember her father as some horrible oppressor who grabbed her neck and threatened her soulmate. She stops reading when Ivan’s and Yekaterina’s letters mention his deteriorating health or his funeral. Because the more she reads, the more she remembers he is a man. A man, just like Toris or Ivan or Alfred or any other man she knows—a man who faced the same choices about marriage and soulmates that she herself did. And chose wrongly.

Her mother chose too, to be forced. To stage, to let herself live without a soulmate. To encourage Yekaterina and Natalia to do likewise, to listen absently to their complaints.

But Mother also let her visit Yekaterina. Didn’t make her try another staging after Lukas Bondevik. Didn’t intervene in her father’s wrath as much as Ivan did, but calmed him all the same. Kept family reunions civil. Mother was the one who said they should hire orphans to be servants. Mother was the one who brought about Toris.

“Mama?”

Natalia turns to see Nikolai standing from the floor. The fern leaf has been decimated, and now he looks at Natalia expectantly. His eyes fall on Raivis.

“Who’re you?” he asks. He walks over to take Natalia’s hand.

Natalia tries to answer. _My former servant. Uncle Ivan’s employee—an actual employee, not like Uncle Alfred. The one who gave Feliks Toris’s belongings when I made him leave._

“A friend of your dad’s,” she says finally. She addresses Raivis. “This is Nikolai.”

Upon looking at Nikolai, Raivis loses nearly all of his tension. He sets himself on his knees in front of Nikolai, who looks at him levelly. His shyness of strangers, thanks to Alexandra’s example and Natalia’s and Toris’s gentle pushing, is receding. “Hello,” says Raivis. “I am Raivis. Your father and I once worked together.”

“You bake too?” asks Nikolai.

Raivis smiles. “No. I worked in the gardens.”

“Like Mama?”

Raivis looks up at Natalia, who shrugs. “Something like that,” he says. “You are—seven years old, yes?”

Nikolai’s brows furrow. “No,” he says. “I’m five.” He holds up four fingers.

Natalia leans down and lifts up his last finger to correct him. As she does, she catches Raivis’s eye. She forgot that Raivis only knows the rumor that has surely echoed through the Braginski household—that seven years ago, Natalia and Toris arrived at the household with a baby girl.

“Nikolai has no siblings,” says Natalia. Raivis looks up at her in confusion. “A friend of ours lent her baby. Raivis, I cannot bring my mother a grandson.”

“I’m only telling you what I heard,” says Raivis. He stands up straight. “Everyone in the household knows not to order anything of you.”

“As they should,” says Natalia. “Now what have you come here for?”

“Ah, yes. Lord Braginski has requested that I add sunflowers to the garden near his office. None of the usual florist shops have their seeds, though—do you?”

Natalia simply nods. Ordering sunflowers into the shop was one of the first moves she made as an employee.

Once Raivis has left with his seeds and Lucille has returned, Natalia takes Nikolai by the hand and walks to Starling Bakery. She catches Toris in a lull of business and a rush of baking, as he prepares for the afternoon’s purchases.

“Natalia,” he says with a smile. He pats Nikolai’s head as their son runs into Toris’s legs, and kisses Natalia. When he pulls away, he sees how distant her gaze is. “What is it?”

Natalia doesn’t know what she’s decided until she vocalizes it. “I need to visit my mother.”

Toris blinks. Then he nods. “Do you want to bring Nikolai?”

“I don’t want to. But I think I must.”

A day later, Nikolai takes a rare carriage ride, spends five minutes speaking to his grandmother, kisses her cheek when she asks, and escapes with Alfred to the gardens to play. Natalia is left with the hard tasks—explaining, thanking, saying goodbye. Forgiving.

A week later she attends her mother’s funeral alone. From the furthest back row of the service, with the servants, she catches Raivis’s eye and nods.

Natalia has made better decisions than her mother. From Nikolai’s free childhood and her own contentment with her life, she feels she can justify it. But just as Yekaterina has chosen a staging over a soulmate and Natalia continues to love her, Natalia knows she needs to afford her mother the same courtesy.

* * *

One night shortly after Nikolai’s sixth birthday, Natalia wakes up to find Toris practically wrapped around her body. His breathing tells her he’s not entirely asleep.

“Toris?” she whispers.

“Hm?”

“I’m turning over.”

Toris removes his arm from its spot underneath her neck and waits patiently as she rolls over. They keep pressed close together—one arm of Toris’s is strewn over her hips, and the second Natalia finds lying between them. She curls her fingers against his. 

“Is there something wrong?” she breathes.

“I…” Natalia can’t fully see him in the dark, but she expects he’s pressing his lips together as he tries to find the right words. She waits. “I miss touching you,” says Toris finally.

“We haven’t exactly been abstinent,” says Natalia. Her free hand comes up to touch his cheek.

“I know,” says Toris. “I just—miss it. Having a full night to ourselves. Nikolai is sleeping through the night, but he could ask questions if he hears us.”

Natalia nods. Nikolai sleeps in a small second room adjacent to theirs. He slept well as a baby, but Toris and Natalia were much more cautious about their intimacy then. Both of them remembered the way Natalia almost didn’t wake up.

Natalia still remembers falling unconscious the minute she saw her son. She remembers relief—that the birth was over, that the baby was safe. She remembers Toris’s relief when she woke.

Even more, though, she remembers how Toris feels against her body when either of them is ready to be touched. And she remembers the frustration of being pulled out of their time together by a whimper or a nightmare. The last time they tried anything, a few nights ago, Natalia moaned loudly enough that Nikolai opened his door. Both she and Toris had to freeze and wait until Nikolai closed his door and went back to bed.

Toris’s palm opens fully against her hip, warm and mildly possessive. Natalia leans toward the touch.

“We might have to ask Feliks for a favor,” Toris whispers.

“Feliks is doing inventory this weekend,” Natalia replies.

“We can’t exactly ask Elizabeta. We already owe her.”

“What about Brother?”

Toris stills. “Ivan and Alfred?”

“They would love to have him spend the night. A weekend, even.” Natalia inches herself down to bring herself closer to Toris’s chest. Only when she hears his heartbeat, accelerated for the wrong reasons, does she swallow the rest of her argument.

“They would spoil him,” says Toris. He means it in a sense beyond letting Nikolai stay up late and eat nothing but sugar. He means it in the way that nobility ruins its children.

“You can’t think that lowly of Alfred,” says Natalia. “He’s loud, but better than Gilbert. Nikolai adores him.”

“And he and Ivan adore Nikolai, I know,” says Toris. He takes a deep breath. “I just don’t want to expose him so soon.”

“You’re worried he will want to leave us.”

“I’m worried Ivan will take him before he wants to be taken.”

“He would never.”

“He needs an heir.”

“And if Nikolai agrees, he can be that heir.” Natalia pulls away from Toris. “We owe Brother that much. He helped keep Father away.”

“I’m not sure your father would have even looked for us.”

“You know he would have. He had your records—he threatened me.” Natalia sighs. This route is getting them nowhere. She veers in a different direction. “Sister, then. Let him stay with Sister.”

Toris pauses, thinking. Natalia knows he doesn’t want Nikolai distracted by the glamor of a noble home—toys, luxurious foods, immense gardens and beds that aren’t stuffed with straw—and unaware of the price for that life. She’s also aware of how important it is to Toris that they be independent, financially if not socially. She suspects it stems from his days as an orphan, scrounging every coin available to keep himself and Feliks alive, but she doesn’t have the nerve to ask. She doesn’t think she can understand the answer.

“I suppose Katyusha would be happy to see him,” Toris concludes. He sounds resigned, but he recovers when Natalia places a gentle kiss along his jawline.

“I will certainly be happy to see you,” she says, and smirks to herself when she feels Toris press himself against her more firmly.

She imagines that if she asks nicely enough, Yekaterina will take Nikolai the very next day.

* * *

“Nikolai,” Toris breathes. In the barest light of dawn, he sees his eight-year-old son’s eyelids flutter open.

“Dad?” Nikolai whispers back groggily.

“Let’s go outside.”

“Don’ wanna,” says Nikolai. He rolls over, wrapping his legs in his blankets.

Toris snorts. “You’re always ready to go when you come to the bakery with me.”

“’s Sunday, Dad.”

“You can have a cookie for breakfast.”

Nikolai pauses. Toris anticipated rewarding his son’s help this morning with a cookie from yesterday’s supply, but he’s not above using it as a bribe instead.

Wordlessly Nikolai slides out of bed. Toris shakes his head fondly and steps out of Nikolai’s room and into his and Natalia’s to find his boots. He takes care to be quiet—Natalia is a deep sleeper, but not so much that a bang against the wardrobe won’t stir her.

He laces his boots and walks out into the kitchen to find Nikolai yawning, standing beside their table. Toris grabs the rucksack he’d laid out late last night—the promised cookie is already inside—and makes to guide Nikolai to their front door, but Nikolai pauses.

“Wait, aren’t we going to—?”

“Shhhhhh,” says Toris. He leads Nikolai outside and latches the door, but once the house is behind them, Nikolai asks again.

“Aren’t we bringing Mama?”

“Not this time.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

“Mama doesn’t come every Sunday.”

“Yes she does.”

Toris pauses, reconsidering. The Sunday tradition of their small family is to eat breakfast and spend the day either reading, repairing the house, or, most frequently, wandering in the woods. Natalia takes the lead and teaches Nikolai everything about the plants surrounding them, and Toris quietly accompanies them. Unless one of them falls ill, all three of them go.

“Alright, she does, but today is special,” Toris says.

“How?” asks Nikolai. He stops walking beside Toris, and Toris turns to find him folding his arms in petulance. He’s a generally agreeable child—all of Toris’s customers tell him his son smiles just like he does—but when he’s upset he resembles his mother. The glare, the tilt of the chin, the glint in his eye.

Toris shakes his head fondly and kneels down before Nikolai. He opens the bag on his back to pull out the promised cookie. Nikolai accepts it warily and takes a bite. Toris takes the opportunity to explain, still kneeing.

“Today is the day your mother said she would marry me,” says Toris. “It’s been ten years now.”

“I’m eight,” says Nikolai skeptically

“Well, we didn’t have you right after we got married. We had some time to ourselves first.”

“Aunt Katyusha says you knew each other since Mama was ten.”

“Well, that’s—true,” says Toris. To be honest, he’s forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but he rarely remembers. His words are as much a part of him as his hair or his fingernails, and now that he’s had his soulmate as his wife for a good third of his life, the sight of his words on his arm no longer sends him into dizzying spells of panic. True, he still takes care not to let any police see for fear of being assumed the soulmate of a proper noble, but he and Natalia live quietly enough that he fears very little these days.

“So if it’s true,” presses Nikolai, swallowing another bite of cookie, “how come you got married so late?”

“Are you saying we should have married when Mama was ten?” Toris raises an eyebrow.

Nikolai gives his father a look of disgust. Toris laughs and kisses his cheek, and stands up. He holds out a hand to Nikolai, half wondering if he’ll take it. He wants him to, is used to helping Nikolai along, but Nikolai has all but forbidden him from doing it in the bakery, and there’s only a fifty-fifty chance he’ll accept handholding on the way home.

Nikolai takes it. Something in Toris’s chest eases.

“I need your help finding flowers,” Toris explains. “I know it’s late in the season, but if they’re from this forest I think Mama will like them.”

Nikolai brightens. He has a very good sense of direction, matched only by his mother's; she finds him every time he wanders away on their Sunday walks. Toris always worries, no matter how many times Nikolai protests that he knows how to find his way back. But Toris recognizes that Nikolai is eager to prove himself.

“I saw some bluebells a few weeks ago,” says Nikolai. He tugs Toris leftward.

The two of them wander through the woods, shadows surrounding them. The hour is late for Toris, who wakes well before the sun six days per week, but dawn is barely illuminating the trees, and Toris isn’t used to the roots and bushes that make up the forest floor. He stumbles more often than does Nikolai.

Nikolai got the best of his parents, Toris thinks absently. Natalia’s grace and strength, her curiosity, her determination. Toris’s…kindness, he supposes, though he knows Natalia can be kind too. His level head. And, surprisingly, his skills in baking. Nikolai has little interest in cooking, not like Toris had to have as a servant, but he insists on helping him and Feliks in the bakery just as readily as he insists on finding his way in the woods.

Nikolai has a better start in life than Toris had. The first third of Toris’s life he spent as an orphan, with one adopted brother named Feliks, a worn coat and a rucksack to his name, and charity and begging as his only means of survival. The second third, his transition from child to adult, he spent as a servant. He’d felt blessed—he’d finally found a job that could become a trade, a group of friends beyond Feliks, and a warm place to sleep every night. But although he could finally meet his needs, through Natalia he’d learned an entirely new definition of going wanting.

How could he explain to his younger self, Toris thinks, that the most recent part of his life gave him everything? That he has a trade, a home, a soulmate who chose him against all signs and all odds? His son, steadfastly holding his hand as they search for a gift for Natalia, is the sheer embodiment of Toris’s wishes as a child, as a teen, as a soulmate scorned before he’d even had a chance.

“They’re over the hill,” says Nikolai. “I think.”

Toris shakes himself from his thoughts, leaving only a glow in his chest that matches the sunrise. Nikolai lets go of Toris’s hand and runs up the hill, pausing at the top.

“Found them!”

“Great,” says Toris. He hikes up the hill after his son, who has already begun his descent into a valley where, true to his word, bluebells blossom to welcome the summer sun.

Toris leans down and begins picking them, but just as he starts, Nikolai hands over the few stalks he’s picked and begins trekking away from Toris, further across the valley.

“Hey, where are you going?” calls Toris, straightening.

“I see some daisies too.”

“Just stay where I can see you,” Toris calls, but he won’t be surprised if Nikolai doesn’t hear. He watches the outline of his son out of the corner of his eye, and finishes gathering stalks of bluebell just as Nikolai returns with more daisies than perhaps are necessary.

“Mama says they mean love,” says Nikolai proudly, presenting them to Toris.

“Really?" asks Toris as he takes them. "I always heard they stood for innocence.”

“What’s that?”

“It means you don’t know things yet because you’re young.” Toris smiles and takes off his rucksack to rummage around for string. “You’re innocent in a lot of ways.”

“No I’m not.” Nikolai says this without petulance. He must be more awake and agreeable after the small breakfast and the hike. “I know what soulmates are.”

“Oh?” As he ties the stems of the daisies and bluebells together, Toris makes brief eye contact with his son.

“Alexandra told me. They’re people who love each other so much the fates said they should be together, and they have words to prove it.”

Toris keeps his expression neutral, but he finds himself confused. “So they love each other, and then the fates give them words?”

“Sure. That’s how you and Mama did it, right?”

“Er…” Toris straightens. “We’d better get home. Mama will be waking up soon.”

“Okay, but you have to answer the question,” says Nikolai. He doesn’t take Toris’s hand, but he walks evenly alongside him, no longer leading but instead pointing him in the right direction.

Toris takes a moment to compose his answer. “The way I heard it,” he concludes, “is that the fates assign you your soulmate first. Even before you’re born. And then, if you’re lucky, you’ll be allowed to learn to write, and maybe you’ll find your words on someone else. And then you have your soulmate.”

“So who learned to write first, you or Mama?”

“Mama. By several years.”

Nikolai nods thoughtfully. “Aunt Katyusha and Uncle Ivan can write too. But Uncle Feliks can’t.”

Toris thinks fleetingly of how pleased Feliks will be to be counted among Nikolai’s biological family. “That’s right. Because Uncle Feliks and I come from a different class than Mama’s family does. Did.”

“Did?”

“That’s right, she left it. But your aunt and uncle stayed.”

“Why’d she leave?”

Toris looks down at the bluebells. “Because I was her soulmate.”

“And she knew when you learned how to write?”

“Even before that, actually.” An echo of old fears, old doubts and pains and longing, spreads through Toris’s chest. “Nikolai, you should understand that…” That what? That Natalia at first didn’t want this life? That Toris was so far beneath her that he was surprised to have met her at all? That Nikolai’s mere existence continues to be a miracle? “You should know that Mama was very surprised we were soulmates. And it took her some time to understand it.”

“But she changed her mind, right?” Nikolai suddenly looks worried, as if he might suddenly blink from existence if Toris says no.

“Of course,” says Toris. He sets his free hand on Nikolai’s shoulder as they walk. “We married, didn’t we?”

“But if it took her so long to… And Uncle Feliks says she hurt you!”

Toris frowns. He really needs to talk to Feliks later. “Uncle Feliks was more upset about that than I was. I was sad, but I wanted her to be happy. And if that meant I couldn’t be near her anymore, then that was what I had to do.”

“Did her family send you away? Did the registration find you?”

“Nikolai, that’s…” Toris sighs. He thought Nikolai had all the pieces he would need to understand, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that that’s not the case. “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”

He starts with finding the servant job. He doesn’t go into detail about his life before that point, but he does emphasize how long he’s known Feliks. He gives the barest bones of the laws, laws he imagines Nikolai to know already, and the stigmas attached to commoner soulmates. He calms himself and Nikolai with the story of Natalia’s first words to him, how much she loved her brother, how much she disliked the pressures of her noble background. He all but ignores Yekaterina’s wedding in favor of Natalia’s wanderings, her tastes, her small kindnesses. He mentions his eighteenth birthday and the first time she said his name.

When it becomes time to discuss her anger at finding her words on his arm, Toris’s voice lowers. He tries to keep it even, but it simply won’t obey. Nikolai starts holding his hand.

He launches into the founding of Starling Bakery, of how he begged Feliks to change the name at the last minute, just before the sign was ready to be made. He mentions taking in Elizabeta but leaves out his own depression, his tacit acceptance of Natalia’s wishes, her choice.

“And then one day she came in as the bakery was closing.”

“Was she looking for you?” Nikolai sounds out of breath, despite their even pace. They’re very close to their house.

“She told me later that she wasn’t. But she missed me, and while she was missing me Uncle Alfred took her on a carriage ride—”

“Uncle _Alfred?_ ”

“Yes, before he and Uncle Ivan got married,” says Toris with a small smile. “And she saw Uncle Feliks in the window and she knew I was there. And she came and found me.”

“So she changed her mind then.”

“Not fully. She didn’t want to marry. But she wanted to be with me.”

“But not marry you?”

“She still needed time.”

“Mama needed too much time,” says Nikolai. In the distance, they catch a glimpse of the edge of the woods, and their house beyond it. “When I meet my soulmate I’m going to marry her the minute I know it’s her.”

“You’d be surprised,” says Toris. “Having a soulmate doesn’t just mean being married. It means doing what’s best for your soulmate.”

“So what did you do?”

“I waited until she was ready.” He squeezes Nikolai’s hand. “That’s why today is so important.”

As he’s speaking, he sees a figure open the door to their house. Natalia steps outside, fully dressed and with her arms crossed. Toris lets Nikolai rush ahead, leaving the woods and crossing the grass to embrace her.

Why does Toris suddenly feel nervous? As he runs over what he might say, he figures out why. Usually his and Natalia’s love for one another goes unspoken—a kiss here, a helping hand there, a fond touch while watching Nikolai grow. He knows she loves him, and she knows of his love for her.

But he can’t let this of all days go unspoken.

Before Natalia can even open her mouth to tease or question him, Toris closes the distance between them with a kiss. Nikolai, still hugging his mother, sighs and shuffles to give Toris more room. He may not be used to romantic words between his parents, but he is used to kisses.

When Toris pulls away, Natalia’s mouth is slightly ajar. She searches his eyes questioningly.

Toris presses the bouquet into her hands. “I love you. Happy anniversary.”

Natalia looks down at the bouquet, picking absently at one of the bluebells. When she looks back up, she’s grinning. “You’re a few days too early. But thank you.”

“Not that anniversary. Today’s the day you said you’d marry me.”

“That counts?”

“More to me than the wedding does.”

Natalia’s grin softens. She tilts her head just slightly—and _oh_ , Toris can guess after ten years of marriage what she’s thinking—and leans up to him for a gentle kiss.

“We must stop doing this with witnesses,” Natalia murmurs against his lips.

“Mama!” Nikolai squawks.

“It’s true,” says Natalia, cupping Nikolai’s face with her hand. “But you’re a much better witness than Uncle Feliks. Now let’s go inside—I suspect your dad brought home a few more cookies than he means to share.”

Nikolai is already at the door by the time Natalia finishes her sentence. Natalia follows him and Toris is content to watch them go, his wife and his son about to enter their home, an unspoken dream he’s had since he first understood what a family was. But Natalia, without even looking back, takes his hand and pulls him along, and Toris smiles and lets her bring him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The flower symbolism associated with the daisy is purity, innocence, loyal love, beauty, patience and simplicity.” http://livingartsoriginals.com/flower-daisy.htm
> 
> “Bluebells have long been symbolic of humility and gratitude. They are associated with constancy, gratitude and everlasting love.” http://livingartsoriginals.com/flower-bluebells.html

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Toris as struggling with anxiety and anxiety attacks, and I am so sorry.
> 
> I hope to have the second part posted within the next few days. I wanted to post it all at once, but the second part needs more time, and posting this is a promise to myself to finish.


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